


Sigr Edda

by fina5



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Bisexual Female Character, F/F, F/M, Female Character of Color, POV Multiple, Pansexual Character, Pansexual!Loki, Tons of drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fina5/pseuds/fina5
Summary: In Norse Mythology, the goddess Sigyn is the wife of Loki. In the MCU, she is a peasant that inadvertently gains the attention of the God of Mischief. As she falls for him over the course of a few decades, she will be forced to choose between her loyalty to Asgard and her devotion to the Allfather's traitor son. Events span from before the first Thor movie to past Endgame.





	1. The Warriors' Arena

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel.
> 
> Please read, comment & enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One

The first time Loki lays eyes on Sigyn, she’s getting her ass kicked.

Or so it seems.

Thor had woken him up before dawn to show him some stupid new move with Mjolnir and dragged him to the Warriors’ Arena, only to find that it’s occupied.

As they step outside the Mead Hall, they notice Haldana, a friend of theirs and sole heir of the Lord Andor. She stands against the wall of the edifice, nervously tapping her foot as she watches the two fighters in the large, sunken arena.

With the colorful rays of light from the sunrise raining over the ring, Loki sees Sif and a woman about his age exchanging vicious blows. Sif continuously knocks the other woman onto the ground, but can never seem to pin her opponent down long enough to end the spar.

Inspecting Sif’s adversary closer, he wonders who she is. She must be a warrior—she’s in the training grounds designated only for warriors, after all—and only nobility can rise to such a position. He knows all the Lords and Ladies of Asgard, so why doesn’t he recognize her?

She’s awfully pretty, too. He can’t imagine he’d simply never noticed her before.

His brother’s booming voice pulls him away from his musings. “What do we have here,” Thor inquires, addressing Haldana as he regards the display before him.

The young goddess turns to look at the men joining her on the side of the arena, apprehensively twisting a lock of her long, golden hair around one finger. Her lips turn down in an anxious frown. “I brought my sister here for a spar because I thought no one would be around at _dawn,_ but then Sif showed up, flew into a rage and challenged her to a duel.”

“Ah, so this is the bastard sibling, then,” Thor remarks, chuckling. “I have heard many a complaint from Sif about her.”

Loki raises an eyebrow at the revelation of the woman’s identity, a bit confused. He had heard Andor’s spurious offspring was a soldier and simply assumed that the child was a man. There were very few female soldiers, after all. Less than a dozen in the entire army.

It’d be awfully impressive if this woman is indeed a soldier. Likewise, it could explain why she’s been able to keep up with Sif for so long. Usually the warrior finishes off her opponents in a matter of a few short minutes, but from what Loki can tell, they’ve been engaged in this skirmish for quite some time. 

“Yes,” Haldana sighs. “She’s loathed her ever since we were little. I believe my mother spoke so ill of her that Sif grew to hate her before they even met.”

Both Loki and Thor nod in understanding, knowing well how stubborn Sif can be, but Haldana isn’t looking at them anymore, too engrossed in the fight between her half-sister and best friend. The brothers follow suit, turning their attention back to the arena.

Sif delivers a series of harsh, overhanded blows with her spear. The smaller woman manages to block all of them with her blade, but the force of the hits sends her to the ground, and her longsword slips from her grasp, flying across the ring.

With a victorious cry, Sif beams and spins around to give an extravagant finishing blow. However, as her back is turned, Haldana’s sister _duplicates herself and leaves behind her doppelgänger._

Suffice it to say, Loki is floored. He certainly hadn’t expected to share the skill of illusionary magic with an illegitimate peasant girl. Although, he realizes her abilities are clearly lacking as she dashes away from her duplicate just outside of Sif’s peripheral vision, unable to blend into her surroundings.

However, the trick works just as well. Sif brings her spear down on the woman’s copy. By the time the illusion dispels, Haldana’s sister is standing behind Sif with a dagger to her back.

“Ha,” she shouts, a grin of victory across her face. “I’ve got you! Now, yield, you s—”

The woman’s voice breaks off with a howl of pain as Sif’s elbow snaps back and slams into her face. She stumbles back, raising her arm to deflect a stroke from her opponent’s weapon. Once again, they begin trading blows.

Rather loudly, Thor acclaims, “That was quite impressive! I almost thought she’d had her.”

For the first time since their arrival, Loki speaks up. “What are the stipulations of this duel,” he asks, though not quite sure why he’s interested.

“If my sister wins, Sif has to allow her to finish training here for the day,” Haldana discloses. “If she loses, however, she must never return to the Warriors’ Arena _and_ cut off her hair.”

_Sif must truly despise this girl,_ Loki thinks. Asgardian women of all backgrounds prefer to keep their hair long. Short hair is often recognized as a symbol of servitude and low-birth. To make her cut her hair is to rub her nose in her loss in a surprisingly cruel fashion for a mere sparring duel. Besides, such terms seem very disproportionate.

Thor looks as though he too believes it’s a bit harsh of a punishment, but says nothing.

At this point in the match, the soldier has had not one but two daggers knocked out of her hands, and she’s scrambling to avoid the swipes of Sif’s blades. Eventually, her inferior speed gets the best of her, and Sif lands a kick square in her chest. The strength behind the punt is enough to send her crashing into the wall in the space between the crown prince and her sister.

However, Loki notices that she seems to slow down ever so slightly just before she makes contact with the hard surface, somewhat lessening the impact of her collision. It almost appears as though she’s using telekinesis, but the moment before he can really process it, Thor steps in front of her, asking, “Are you alright? I know the Lady Sif can—”

Sif shoves him out of her way before he can finish whatever he was going to say. She raises one pointed end of her spear to the other woman’s neck and yells, “Yield!”

The woman merely smiles with surreptitious satisfaction. Sif snarls in outrage. Just as she parts her lips to bark out something else, Haldana’s sister comes up behind Sif—it’s now clear to everyone that she had by some means made another duplicate of herself sometime between hitting the wall and this very moment—and places a shortsword at the warrior’s throat.

“No,” she puffs out, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “You first.”

It looks as though she’s won, and Loki can’t help but feel oddly pleased with the outcome.

Withal, Sif suddenly bends and twists her body with the grace only a seasoned fighter could possess, once again turning on her opponent. She pushes the other woman down onto the declining steps that lead to the arena below and holds the blade of her metal lance to bastard’s neck once more, gritting out, _“Yield.”_

The woman’s chest heaves with effort for a few seconds before she finally hangs her head, softly muttering, “I yield.”

Momentarily appeased, Sif smirks and deactivates her weapon. “About time, peasant. You could have saved yourself a lot of pain if you had only surrendered earlier.”

“My name is _Sigyn,”_ the woman declares savagely as she gets to her feet.

“Whatever,” Sif sneers.

Now that she’s so close, Loki takes a moment to examine her more closely. She has dark, mud-colored hair and eyes to match. Some of the characteristics of her form match her sister’s—her nose and brow, for instance—but for the most part, her features are more ordinary than refined.

She’s not quite short, most likely thanks to her mixed parentage as Asgardian nobility stand at roughly a foot above the lower classes, though she’s not exactly tall either. She wears a short dress typical of female fighters, but it’s noticeably threadbare, betraying her station in life.

Loki thinks she is utterly unremarkable, like any peasant he has ever seen.

He watches as Sigyn grasps her long braid at the base of her neck and brings her dagger behind her head to cut it off from the roots. Her freshly-cut chocolate locks spill past her ears, coming to rest above her shoulders in disarray. Eyes hard, she tosses the thick plait at Sif’s feet and brazenly lifts her chin, face set in defiance and covered in drying blood.

Loki thinks she is utterly gorgeous, like no goddess he has ever seen.

As if she can hear his thoughts, her eyes suddenly snap to meet his, losing their fury all at once. Instead, they shine with surprise, as though she’s only just noticed that the two sons of the Allfather had watched her lose a fight in a place she didn’t belong.

He’s practically certain she can hear his thoughts when those same sepia-brown eyes widen in overt embarrassment. Before he can even think to say anything, she lets out an inscrutable squawk, turns tail and promptly runs away at full speed, her uneven mane fluttering in the wind as she goes.

_Sigyn,_ he thinks, _is a rather lovely name._


	2. The Troll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read, comment & enjoy!

Sigyn wakes to Norell shaking her gently. She peels her eyes open, looking past her lover to see the sunset gleaming through the open window. The light dances over the room, making the brown, wooden furniture appear nearly red.

“No,” she groans, pushing her face farther into the plush, cream-colored pillows of Norell’s bed. After being thoroughly beaten by one of the most powerful warriors in all of Asgard—an event she will later refer to as Incident Number One—she had gone to her girlfriend’s house to sleep off the pain.

“Yes,” Norell sighs. “Your shift starts in an hour.”

Groaning again, Sigyn pushes herself up and rolls out of bed. “Why did I have to switch to the night shift?”

As she lurches into the adjoining washroom to freshen up, she hears Norell say, “Because it pays more?”

Almost mindlessly, Sigyn nods in agreement as she scrubs her teeth clean. She lives with her mother in a house owned by her father in a middle class neighborhood. For whatever reason, he’d decided to up the rent on his former mistress and love child recently, so they’ve been scrambling to make ends meet.

In truth, Sigyn and her mother make enough money to keep up with the higher rent. However, Sigyn has been making steady deposits into a savings account in order to eventually purchase the house. As such, she’s been making extra money so as to not disrupt her progress.

“You know,” Norell chimes as Sigyn returns to the bedroom. “You could simply ask your father not to raise the rent. It’s not as though he needs the money.”

It’s true. Lord Andor is a wealthy noble. He has no reason to press his daughter for extra cash.

“Yes, I already tried that,” Sigyn tells her. “Unfortunately, he and the Lady Magnhildr were not to be persuaded.”

“Oh, sorry, dear,” Norell sighs, arms crossed in displeasure.

“It’s fine. Part of me expected it,” Sigyn admits. “I may not be one of those affluent snakes, but I share their blood. I know how they operate.”

Norell shakes her head, but doesn’t respond.

Sigyn steps up to give her girlfriend a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll see you before my shift tomorrow.”

She heads out, stopping by a food stand for a quick bite. As she approaches the military headquarters, she toys with the fringe of her new trim. She’s bound to incur some abuse for having a short haircut. Of course, that won’t be anything thing new. As one of the very, very, _very_ few women in the military, she gets crap for everything she does. She looks weird? She should put more effort into her appearance. She looks good? She’s vain. She does her job poorly? That’s why women shouldn’t be soldiers. She does her job well? She’s a show-off. So on and so forth.

There’s no winning.

The garrison is large, sturdy and made of stone. It sits beside the palace, and contains the entirety of Asgard’s military resources. There are countless storage rooms for weaponry, a commissary, barracks for on-call personnel, offices for those of high command, and the grounds are littered with training arena for drills.

Reservations aside and head held high, she strides into the building and makes her way to the women’s changing room. It’s rather small. There are twenty compartments, only eight of which are in use.

She nods to the women getting off work as she opens her locker, attempting to ignore the strange stares coming from them. For the hundredth time, she tries to put her hair up so it won’t look like she cut it off in an anger-fueled lapse in judgment. Unfortunately, it isn’t even long enough for a ponytail, which means it’ll hang past the bottom of her helmet and she’ll look like a man.

After a quick shower, she throws on her armor and heads to the prisons for her shift.

* * *

Twelve hours later, she’s ready to call it quits.

“Hey, girl,” one of the men in her unit calls as Sigyn walks past the commissary. “Why the long face, or wait—does it just seem that way because your hair is so short?”

She stops and turns her head to see Corporal Yvor, a giant of man that’s as keen as he is short. He stands against a tall pillar with some of their colleagues, smirking at her from across the hall.

“Ha-ha,” she replies, utterly unimpressed. “You’re hilarious.” All night, she’d been working as a guard in the prisons. Other guards and prisoners alike had been poking fun at her.

“Now, what I don’t understand, witch,” Yvor drawls as he takes slow steps toward her. “Is why you don’t simply use your magic to grow your hair out again.” His lips quirk in an annoying, condescending smirk.

“I’m not a witch,” Sigyn snaps. She doesn’t address the part about her magic. Unfortunately, she’d never received formal training for her gifts. Thus, her set of skills are relatively limited. All she can really do is a little telekinesis and manufacture specific illusions.

“And I’m off shift,” she adds. “So fuck off.” As she stomps away, the sound of the other soldiers’ laughter follows her down corridor.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath as she enters the women’s locker room and goes about changing into her street clothes. The men always give her trouble, and while it’s not too different from when they pick on the other women, she is a lieutenant. Besides Captain Kettil and Major Erling, she outranks every man in her unit. As such, they are way out of line whenever they open their _stupid_ mouths, and if she ever makes captain, she is so going to punish them with the most revolting, tedious tasks of which she can think.

She’s on her way home once she’s outside of the garrison again, but the sight of her half-sister waiting for her causes her to halt.

“No, no,” she shouts as soon as Haldana notices her, bringing her arms up as though to shield herself. “I am not going anywhere with you ever again. I have been humiliated enough for one lifetime.”

“Oh, come now,” Haldana chides, smiling cheekily. “You know I didn’t expect Sif to be there so early in the day.”

“That’s quite the apology,” Sigyn retorts, resuming her walk home.

Her sister frowns and falls into step beside her. “Oh, very well. I’m sorry. Better?”

“Completely,” she counters, voice laced with pointed sarcasm.

Having Sif beat the stuffing out of her was hard enough, but unluckily for her, she managed to get her ass kicked in front of _royalty._ The worst part of the entire ordeal was the way Prince Loki had been appraising her after the fight was over. As though her skills were impressive for a _peasant._

It’s not to say she’s upset with her station in life. Like most peasants, she cares very little for what the nobles think of her brood. However, as the illegitimate daughter of a lord, she in particular is frequently compared to those superior to her. She can’t say it doesn’t sting from time to time.

“What do you want anyway,” she asks her sister, mouth drawn into a tense grimace.

Haldana’s lips turn up in a jesting smile. “Can I not visit my little sister simply because I want to?”

Sigyn gives her a blank stare. “I’m older than you.”

“Yes,” Haldana grants. “But you’re so small.” She punctuates her statement by patting Sigyn on the head.

Sigyn bats the younger woman’s hand away and quickens her stride.

“Oh, come now. I was just kidding,” the golden-haired goddess exclaims, laughing. She runs ahead of her sister and blocks her path. “I did come here with actual news, you know.”

The darker woman raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Finally, Haldana divulges, “I’ll be leaving on a quest in a few hours, so we won’t see each other for a few days.”

“Oh, no,” Sigyn groans dramatically, shoving past Haldana and continuing on her way on the tan cobblestone road. “How will I get by without you?”

Her sister doesn’t follow her, but she can hear the stomping of a foot behind her. “Rude!”

Truthfully, Sigyn didn’t mean to be curt with Haldana, but she’s been having a bad day. As much as she loves serving and protecting Asgard, it’s difficult to enjoy sometimes. Not to mention, Haldana is a warrior, which means she gets to go on fantastic quests and explore other realms. For centuries, she’s been revered as the goddess of battle and caution. In contrast, the most adventure Sigyn gets is tamping down an uprising in Vanaheim or chasing fugitives through the foothills beyond the metropolis.

She winds her way through the posh, aristocratic communities clustered on the far side of the castle until she reaches the busier, louder streets that characterize her neighborhood. Even so early in the morning, people are bustling about as businesses open their doors for the day. She waves at a few acquaintances as she goes, a serene smile finding its way onto her face. This part of town has always been where she feels most comfortable. She fits in easily. No one cares who her parents are. Hardly anyone bothers her about her profession. It’s a calm, simple place.

Once she arrives at the two-story slate house that she shares with her mother, she carefully opens the door and tiptoes inside. Her mother, Walentyna, doesn’t know that she’s chopped off most of her hair, and Sigyn _doesn’t_ want a lecture.

She walks through the kitchen and passes the contiguous living room. She gets all the way up the stairs and halfway down the hall to her room before a woman with dark olive skin and long, black hair suddenly opens her door. Sigyn startles and jumps a foot into the air. This draws her mother’s attention.

Walentyna’s dark eyes widen to the size of saucers. “What happened to you?”

Sorting her features into an expression of befuddlement, she wonders, “Whatever do you mean?”

“I _mean,”_ Walentyna snaps. “Why do you have the hair of a prepubescent boy?” Her eyes somehow widen further as she approaches Sigyn. “And your nose is horribly bruised!”

“I’m fine,” Sigyn assures the woman, pushing her mother’s hands away when they go for her face. “I merely got whacked in the face by a goddess.”

Walentyna groans, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “How many times have I told you not to fight with your sister? She has had formal training. Your skills simply don’t compare—”

“I had formal training when I entered the military,” Sigyn interrupts, voice louder than she'd intended. “And while I _do_ best Haldana occasionally, that’s beside the point. She and I did not fight.”

Crossing her arms, Walentyna queries, “Then pray tell, who punched you in the face?”

“She elbowed me,” the younger woman deflects, mumbling.

_“Sigyn!”_

Sighing, she admits, “The Lady Sif.”

_“What?”_

“She started it,” Sigyn defends as though she’s still a child. “I was minding my own business, and she just challenged me to a duel out of nowhere!”

Her mother glowers up at her, silently seething. After a moment, she lets out a long, angry breath. “I don’t have time for this right now. I have to be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.”

Since before Sigyn was born, Walentyna has been a healer at Asgard's military hospital. When she was young, her mother used to take her to work because childcare was too expensive for the young woman. It was there that Sigyn's desire to become a soldier originated, much to her mother's chagrin.

Walentyna strides down the hall to the stairs. As she begins her descent, she calls, “Don’t fight any other deities while I’m at work.”

“No promises,” Sigyn grumbles before stalking the rest of the way to her room, slamming the door, and promptly collapsing onto her bed.

* * *

The next few days fly by in a blur for Sigyn. Friends and associates alike recoil in reaction to her haircut, which they follow up with giving her a hard time. The most irritating reactions came from her best friends, Quimby and Pontus.

She’d been waiting for them in the commissary for midnight-lunch. Upon seeing her, the two of them had collapsed into laughing fits, Pontus dropping his tray of food in the process. It was only when Major Hagen had walked by and told them to pick themselves off the floor that they’d stopped. Of course, once they’d actually sat down, they'd made snide remarks until she had just gotten up and left.

Now, serving as a sentry at the Bifrӧst, she refrains from rolling her eyes at the memory.

She’s at the end of her shift, but no one has come to relieve her, so she stays put on the shining Rainbow Bridge.

The sound of Heimdall’s sword scraping against metal draws her attention to the golden dais. She watches as the god actuates the Bifrӧst. In turn, the far end of the chamber glows with an otherworldly light as her sister’s hunting party arrives.

Alarmed, Sigyn turns her eyes forward again and stands stock-still, trying her best to blend in with the wall. Nothing good can come of Sif noticing her.

Haldana, Prince Thor and the Warriors Three walk past her without ever sparing her a glance. She’s almost in the clear.

“Oh, who do we have here,” Sif drawls, coming to stand in front of Sigyn.

_Damn it._

Sigyn meets the goddess’s gaze, trying her very best to keep her expression neutral.

Sif has hated her since they were young girls. Despite there being no evidence, she thinks that Sigyn is an opportunist who will ultimately screw over Haldana, her best friend. As such, she’s always made it her business to treat Sigyn like crap.

Fingering the ends of Sigyn’s hair, she taunts, “Enjoying your new trim?”

Sigyn grits her teeth to hold back the expletives threatening to get out. After another few seconds of annoying smirking, Sif continues on her way.

Once the warrior’s back is turned, Sigyn drops her composed façade to childishly stick out her tongue.

Just as she’s straightened her posture and resumed her vigil, another figure leans in close to her. She almost reels back in surprise, eyes wide and breath shallow.

“I saw that,” Prince Loki whispers to her, smiling almost conspiratorially. With that, he strides away, rejoining his party.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ she thinks, cheeks hot, _how many times am I going to embarrass myself in front of him?_

Decades from now, Sigyn will regard this as Incident Number Two.

* * *

Incident Number Three is a real fucking doozy.

It takes place several weeks after the second Incident. The time between the two events had passed with relatively few problematic occurrences. Sigyn made enough money to keep up with the rent and her savings timeline, people got used to her new haircut, her mother let the fight with Sif go, and she didn’t embarrass herself in front of anymore deities. Essentially, life had returned to normal.

Today, she’s working the day shift in the prisons. There’s an influx of inmates, so the guards have been working to arrange them into cellblocks. It’s a bit of a difficult process as the cell walls take so long to open and close. The guards have to keep a close eye on all the prisoners at all times so that no one makes an attempt at escape.

Of course, they still try.

“Get back in line,” Sigyn shouts, shoving at a large troll as he tries to dart away from his cellmates. She brandishes her spear when he snarls at her, and the threat is enough to quell him.

Stepping into a cellblock, she directs the prisoners inside. Once all five of them have filed in, she nods at one of the men outside to initiate the generation of the cell wall. In accordance with standard protocol, one soldier has to wait inside the cell until the shield is halfway up to ensure that none of the prisoners make a run for it, so Sigyn waits as the glowing orange segments climb through the air. When the generation of the cell wall is halfway done, she turns and steps forward to leave, but stumbles as her cape catches on something.

She looks behind her to find the troll stepping on her cape. He and the rest of his cellmates begin to rowdily fidget. She swings her spear to get him off her cape, but the ogre on his left catches it. As Sigyn wasn’t expecting such a move, he’s able to tug it from her grasp.

 _Shit, the wall is too high for me to get over now,_ she realizes, adrenalin beginning to course through her system. _They’re trying to trap me in here with them._

“Bring down the wall,” she shouts at her men, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice.

Frantic, one of them darts forward to follow her orders, but the cell wall keeps rising. “I can’t,” the soldier yells. “It won’t stop!”

“You can’t stop the generation once it’s started,” Captain Kettil relays, having come over to see what the fuss was about. “And there’s a five minute waiting period until we can bring the wall down again.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Sigyn shrieks as she unsheathes her sword. The prisoners she’s locked in with begin to make a semi-circle around her. “There’s no override switch?”

“There is,” Kettil confirms as the wall locks into place, whirring and shimmering in it finality. “However, every wall in the prison would go down, and we don’t have the manpower to handle such a predicament.”

Vexed, Sigyn grumbles. She focuses on the inmates, and knowing they only have five minutes to kill or maim her, she charges forward first to give herself the upper hand. She goes for the ogre first, knocking the spear out of his hands. Once it hits the ground, she creates dozens of copies of it. Unable to discern which spear is real, the prisoners scrabble for the fakes, coming up with nothing as their hands pass through them. Sigyn manages to knock out two of them before they give up.

Her now-torn yellow cape lets her down yet again as the troll grabs it and tugs, sweeping her off her feet. She goes down, lying prone on top of her sword so none of the prisoners can use it against her. They kick and stomp on her, likely taking out all their anger from being locked up. Her golden armor begins to cave in, bruising her flesh. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

She isn’t sure how long she lies there, absorbing blows. Surely, it’s only a few minutes, but the pain disorients her.

After a small eternity, she feels someone pulling her up and dragging her with them outside of the cell. She stands, shaking from the pain and adrenalin. She follows Captain Kettil outside of the prisons at his urging, her armor pinching her as she goes and her feet sounding against the marble floor.

“You understand,” Captain Kettil mutters, standing close to her once they're past the wide entrance to the prisons. “How this is going to look, yes? That this incident occurred because you, a woman, handled the situation poorly?” A bitter twist to her lips, she nods, and he continues. “As such, I can’t give you time off to recuperate.”

She nods again, disappointed but not surprised. _If I were a man,_ she thinks, looking at the ground, _I’d get a month off_ with _pay._ Instead, she’ll have to continue working, battered and bruised as she is.

“However,” Captain Kettil says. “You can’t work without armor, and it may take a while for the order to go through, especially if I forget about it for a few days.”

Stunned, she looks up at her captain. He has a slight smile on his face, but quickly wipes it away.

“You’ll be on desk duty until further notice,” he tells her, turning to head back into the prisons. “You’re dismissed for the day.”

Any relief she may have gotten from her captain’s words is obliterated as she makes her way up the stairs, her damaged armor making such movement nearly impossible. She knows she won’t be able to make it to the garrison without first removing her armor, so she settles in a vacant army arena to do just that.

The first thing she does is yank off her helmet, which is dented in about a million places. She tosses it on the ground.

Sitting on the steps surrounding the arena, she moves on to her busted up greaves. They’ve come apart at the sides, so she wedges her fingers beneath the warped metal and tries to tear them from her shins. Unfortunately, they’re so bent out of shape that she can’t pull them off without in turn ripping into her own skin, leaving her to furiously and fruitlessly grapple with them.

She hears footsteps around her, but disregards them and focuses on her task. She’s far too frustrated to speak civilly with another person at the present time. When the owner of the footsteps stops at the bottom of the stairs in front of her, she elects to ignore them.

Removing her hands from the greave on her right leg, she attempts to use telekinesis to remove it. Brow furrowed in concentration, she silently urges the golden metal to curve away from her flesh. After about thirty seconds, all she gets is a tiny creak as the hardware shifts ever so slightly.

Dismayed with her failure, she goes back to angrily tugging at the greave.

The individual attached to the feet below her clears their throat, and her control snaps.

“You know what, whoever the fuck you are,” Sigyn barks, not even bothering to glance up. “I am not in the _fucking_ mood. My entire body hurts, and I am _very_ upset, so kindly fuck off.”

“That’s not very nice,” they drawl, a smug edge to their voice.

Her eyes narrow at the audacity of whoever is disturbing her. “Motherfucker, yo—”

Sigyn’s entire body seizes up as she stares up at Loki. Prince of Asgard. Odinson.

“Oh,” she breathes anxiously as she slides into a kneeling position at the bottom of the stairs. “I-I am so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t realize. I-I—”

“It’s quite alright,” he assures her, smiling. He offers her a hand.

She takes the proffered hand, allowing herself to be pulled up. At her full height, she’s about six inches shorter than him. From this close, she can’t help but notice that his eyes are an enchanting shade of green.

 _Wait,_ her mind screams. _Can I look at him in the eyes? Am I allowed to do that? I mean, he’s directly addressing me, so surely it’s okay._

_Right?_

In the time she spends pondering the ramifications of her involuntary behavior, the prince looks her over, taking in her damaged armor. When she notices where his attention lies, she quickly explains, “Oh, I—my armor—I was trampled—Well, not trampled, per se, more like pummeled. I was pummeled by these ogres because I got trapped in a cell with them because the cells—they’re very slow­—The system for generating the cell wall is slow, and then you have to wait five minutes, and I am rambling and I’ve been rambling for so long and I don’t remember what it feels like to not be talking, so I’m going to shut up—be quiet—now, Your Highness, and I’m sorry.”

At the end of her impromptu speech, it’s all she can do to gulp nervously and direct her gaze to the ground.

Her armor suddenly shifts, causing her to jolt in surprise. She watches in wonderment as the metal she’s clad in takes on the consistency of silk. It slithers to the floor where it then solidifies into individual pieces, leaving her wearing only the army’s standard issue long-sleeve tee and slacks.

“Wow, that was amazing,” she gushes, reaching down to pick up the ruined greave with which she’d been struggling. Perplexed, she wonders, “How come it’s still damaged?”

“Why wouldn’t it be,” he coolly replies.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, bashful. “I don’t know. I just—I don’t really know how magic works.”

The prince raises an eyebrow. “And yet you practice it yourself,” he enounces.

“Right.” She hangs her head, and the shadows from the sunset obscure her face. “In truth, I’m not very good.”

“Yes,” he agrees, looking down at the scattered pieces of her armor. “That is evident.”

 _Well, he’s super harsh,_ Sigyn internally gripes.

“However,” he says, reclaiming her attention. “If you were given proper instruction, you could improve.”

The implication of his words causes her eyebrows to draw together.

Smiling graciously, he continues, “As such, I’ve decided to lend you my expertise.”

Sigyn’s eyes widen in explicit shock. An excited smile almost breaks out on her face, but one nagging thought holds it back.

Wringing her hands, she finds herself saying, “If I may ask, Your Highness—not that I’m not honored, of course—uh, why?”

He shrugs, smile turning sly. “Let’s just say I’d love to see what the Lady Sif would look like with short hair.”

At this, Sigyn can’t help but match his grin.


	3. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read, comment & enjoy!

“Here you are,” Prince Loki says, dropping a small, wooden sphere into the palm of her hand.

The two of them occupy a small training arena on the east end of the garrison. A cool breeze is running through the area, but the early morning sun beat down on them, bright and hot.

She inspects the ball, brushing her fingers over its surface. “Is this an _enchanted_ sphere,” she wonders aloud, only partly joking.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s completely ordinary.”

Sigyn’s lips twist in slight disappointment as she tosses the wooden ball from hand to hand.

Loki continues with their first lesson. “I want you to change this sphere into a coin.”

Her mind stutters a little at his request. Prior to this very moment, she hadn’t realize that she could alter inanimate objects. Not for the first time, she wonders what else she can do.

He plucks the sphere back from her hand. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Sigyn watches as green magic crawls over the ball, slowly turning it into a simple gold coin. He holds it out to her, and she takes it. As she runs the pads of her fingers over the coin’s exterior, she can’t help but feel a bit awestruck. She’s not sure if it’s because of the magic or her teacher.

Loki waves his hand, and the coin reverts to its original form. “All you have to do,” he instructs, “is visualize how the coin looks and feels, and picture altering the sphere’s molecular composition.”

Despite not quite understanding, she nods, holding the sphere up and preparing to follow his directions. “Sounds like it’ll be easy enough.”

Unsurprisingly, it is not.

Sigyn tries for an hour—a full hour—to turn the sphere into a coin before she gives up.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she sighs, trying her hardest not to throw the wooden ball onto the ground in a petulant fit of rage. “Clearly, I’m wasting your time.”

“Nonsense,” he coolly insists. “These things take a while.”

 _Huh,_ she thinks, shoulders sagging in relief. _Perhaps he isn’t so grim, after all._

“Granted,” he adds. “This is _horribly_ boring for me, so I think it’s best that you work at this on your own.”

_Never mind._

“Alright,” she breathes, anxiously wringing her hands in disappointment. “Well, how should I get word to you once I figure it out?”

“Just send me a letter,” he tells her, turning away with his hands clasped behind his back.

As he walks away, Sigyn apprehensively bites her bottom lip. Not for the first time, she worries that if she doesn’t display immediate success, he’ll drop her, and she’ll never learn how to properly use magic.

“Um,” she blurts, brashly stepping forward and reclaiming his attention. “Are you sure it’ll make it all the way to you? Surely, random women write you all the time.”

“Yes,” he grants, smiling as though pleased by her question. “However, I have a list of accepted senders, and I added your name just this morning.”

“Ah, okay,” she babbles. “Thanks. I—Goodbye, Your Highness.”

“Goodbye, Sigyn,” he returns and continues on his way.

Turning away herself, she grumbles, “Damn it.” She slips the wooden ball into her pocket and trudges out of the arena. “Why am I so fucking _awkward_ around him?”

Two weeks later, she manages to turn the _stupid_ sphere into a _stupid_ coin.

Two. _Fucking._ Weeks.

“Mother,” she calls, scouring kitchen table for the coin and the letter to Loki she’d finished earlier. “Did you move my things from the table?”

“What things,” Walentyna answers, checking the loaf she has in the oven. Today is her day off from the hospital, so she wears a plain olive green dress rather than her uniform. Despite the simplicity of her looks, she looks gorgeous, just like she always does. Sigyn will never understand how her father threw Walentyna away so carelessly.

Sigyn ducks under the table to continue her search. “A letter and—”

“Oh, yes,” he mother replies. “I sealed and took it to the postal service this morning.”

“You wha—” her shriek breaks off as she bangs her head against the underside of the table. She crawls backward on the dark slate tile and stands to face her mother. “You what?”

Walentyna spares her an unconcerned glance. “You heard me.”

Sigyn groans loudly, utterly dismayed by her mother’s actions. Although, she supposes it’s alright that Walentyna sent the letter. She’d already written it, after all.

“Fine,” she remits. “Where is the coin I had on top of it?”

Walentyna returns to her task. “I used it to pay for the postage.”

Sigyn stumbles back in horror. “You _what?”_

“It’s just a coin, Sigyn,” he mother flippantly assures her. “I’m sure you can scare up another one.”

“No,” Sigyn bemoans, slumping against the kitchen counter in defeat. What is Prince Loki going to think when she shows up to their next meeting without the proof of her success? “I need _that_ coin.”

Sighing, Walentyna suggests, “Why don’t you just finish turning that wooden ball into a coin?”

Slowly, Sigyn lifts her head. “I did,” she grits out, glaring at her mother’s back. “Unfortunately, a traitorous woman _stole_ it and gave it to a postal worker!”

“Oh, dear,” her mother sarcastically intones. “You should kill her.”

 _“Mother,”_ she groans, dramatically sliding to the floor.

As she lays there, wallowing is self-pity, her mother comes to stand over her. “You could always turn something else into a coin.”

“I can’t do that,” Sigyn insists, tone listless.

“And why not,” Walentyna chides.

Sigyn lets her head loll to the side so that she can stare up at her mother. She’s about to explain her logic when she realizes that there is no reason why she can’t simply use magic on another object.

“There we go,” Walentyna commends as she sees cognizance dawn on Sigyn’s face. “Now, stop acting like a child and get off the floor.”

Sigyn manages to transform a feather she’d found on the street into a coin before her next training session with Loki two days later.

“Let’s see your progress, then,” he requests.

Proudly and without further ado, she deposits her gold coin into his open palm.

In less than a second, he’s twisted it between his fingers and turned it back into a feather.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Sigyn thinks, face falling. _I’ve done it now._

He gives her a blank look. “This is a feather,” he deadpans.

“Yes,” she acknowledges, “it is. You see, Your Highness, I _did_ turn the ball into a coin, as I told you. However, my mother took that coin and spent it, so I simply used something else for the transfiguration.”

Loki lets the feather flutter to the ground of the training arena. “You tried to trick me.” He smiles. “I’m impressed.”

“Oh, no,” she denies. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Ah-ah,” he interjects. “Don’t add lying to the list.”

Slightly mortified, Sigyn falls silent.

He expounds, “Now, I’d belatedly realized that the task I’d given you may result in you understanding only how to turn a _ball_ into a _coin._ However, it would appear as though my concerns were unfounded.”

 _Is that a compliment,_ Sigyn wonders. _I can never tell with this guy._

Abruptly, he snatches a pebble off the ground and hands it to her. “Turn this into a button.”

Nervous, Sigyn expels a slow, deep breath, closing her fist around the pebble and shutting her eyes. She visualizes the smooth texture and convex shape of a button. Slowly, the rough edges of the pebble shift and bend into rounded sides.

When she opens her hand, a small, simple blue button rests in the center of her palm.

“Yes.” He plucks the button from her outstretched hand. “Very impressed indeed.”

* * *

One of the men in Sigyn’s platoon is off. She’s not quite sure what’s wrong with him, but he’s been acting strange all day.

“Langley,” she calls, pulling the man aside during drills. “Are you alright?”

“Is something wrong,” he asks, not sounding at all put out by her line of questioning.

She tilts her head to the side. “Well, you’ve been a bit slow today, and you look paler than usual. Have you been feeling ill lately?”

Cheerily, he replies, “Not at all,” and returns to his exercises.

Sigyn scowls, but lets the issue go.

During lunch hour, she sits at a long, white table in the middle of the cafeteria with Quimby, Pontus, and a couple men from her unit. The commissary is large enough to seat everyone in the military. Since only a small fraction of the army is on duty and on lunch break right now, there are only a few soldiers per table. The canteen resides on the far end of the hall. It’s the only food outlet in Asgard that doesn’t serve alcohol.

“All I’m saying is,” Pontus continues, an impish smile on his tan face. “I’m a captain, and you two are lowly non-commissioned officers. _That_ is what makes me better than you.”

Between Pontus and Sigyn, Quimby throws down the potato at which he’d been nibbling. “I joined the army like a century after you. You had a head start.”

Pontus shrugs. “Sigyn’s been in the service for over a thousand years, far longer than either of us.”

“First of all,” Sigyn starts, holding up a finger. “Lieutenants are commissioned officers, you dolt. Second, the _only_ reason you made captain before me is because I have tits.”

Across the table, Langley and another enlisted man with dark skin and curly hair, Folke, crack somewhat uneasy smiles at her remark.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pontus groans, running a hand through his short brown hair. “Don’t make this into a feminist issue.”

“I’m not making it a feminist issue. It _is_ a feminist issue,” she corrects. “If I were promoted to captain, I’d be the first woman to receive that rank since the Valkyries were around. We’re talking _thousands_ of years. You men would be far too threatened by my stature.”

Pontus glares for a few seconds before snapping, “You’re not the best out of the three of us!”

“Yes, I am,” she argues. “Every time we spar, I kick your asses. I’ve even taken you both at once and still—”

Sliding into a seat across from her, Yvor rudely interrupts, “Are we talking about the witch getting spit roasted by these two fags?”

In unison, the three friends turn their heads and regard the intruder with blank stares.

Well, Sigyn’s is more of a glare.

Yvor is the most irritating of anyone with whom she’s ever worked. He’s haughty despite not being exceptional at his job in any way. When they’d first met as recruits, he’d shamelessly and relentlessly hit on Sigyn. She’d rejected him, and he’s been obnoxious ever since. When she was promoted over him two centuries ago, he got even more unbearable.

“Because if that’s the case,” he goes on, smirking nastily. “I’d love to fill that last hole.”

Sigyn sneers, “Sorry, experienced riders only.”

Chuckles break out around the table, punctuated by an offended grimace from Yvor.

“Whatever, witch,” he grumbles, ducking his head. He begins shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth, which gives Sigyn a wicked idea.

Her lips curve into a malicious grin. “Speaking of witchery, anyone want to see a magic trick?”

As soon as Yvor looks back up, she waves her hand over his tray. Before everyone’s eyes, his portion of mashed potatoes shifts into a pile of dung.

Yvor jumps from his seat, throwing down his fork and screaming, “Did you just turn my food into shit?”

“Yeah,” she affirms, sporting a shit-eating grin, ironically. “Eat it.”

“Why you—Fucking bitch,” he shouts, picking up his tray and tossing it at her.

Eyes widening in alarm, she manages to duck just in time. The tray sails over her head and smashes into the back of a sergeant from another division. Mouth agape, she straightens slowly. The entire table has fallen silent.

The sergeant turns around, positively livid. Food and excrement slide from his back as he stands. “Which one of you threw that?”

Simultaneously, Sigyn, Quimby, Pontus and Folke point at Yvor.

Despite the protests that gush from Yvor’s mouth, the sergeant draws his sword. The uninvolved parties take this as their cue to flee the scene. Once in the hall outside, Sigyn and her friends disintegrate into giggling masses, unable to even keep themselves upright.

When the sounds of shouting and blades crossing begin to emanate from inside the commissary, the soldiers in the hall pick themselves off the floor.

“That was the best thing ever,” Pontus sighs, smiling down at Sigyn. Still laughing, Quimby agrees. 

“Too bad we have to go back to work now,” Folke complains. Sigyn, Pontus, and Quimby groan in distaste.

Sigyn gripes, “There is no part of me that wants to return to the training grounds for administering drills.”

Pontus scoffs. “You think that’s bad? I have sentry duty in the throne room.”

Quimby barks out a laugh. “Yikes. That’s the worst post in the realm.” Sigyn nods in agreement. Serving as a sentry in the throne room comes with a lot of pressure. One is always worried about messing up in front of nobles and royals alike. It feels like a cardinal sin to twitch, cough, sneeze, or even change one’s expression.

“Sucks to suck,” Sigyn taunts. Nodding to Langley and Folke, she orders, “Let’s go, boys.”

The three of them head off in the opposite direction of Quimby and Pontus. Folke tries to engage Langley in conversation as they walk down the spacious corridor ahead of Sigyn. She notices that Langley gives rather polite responses, despite the fact that most of what he usually says is absolute filth.

“Langley,” she calls for the second time today just before they reach the garrison's entryway. “Hang back. Folke, you go on ahead.” Folke nods, proceeding to exit the building.

Langley strides up to her, an uncharacteristic bounce to his step. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

Sigyn frowns. _He never calls me lieutenant._

Instead of responding, she inspects the man closer. Just as she’d noticed earlier, he’s quite pale—pasty, really. He’s certainly moving differently, too. Although, she’s never paid enough attention to him to be absolutely sure.

Looking into his eyes, Sigyn feels as though she’s standing next to someone else. In her mind, his brown eyes are sharp and green.

Operating on pure impulse, she whispers, “Your Highness?”

Rather than frowning in confusion—as a part of Sigyn had been expecting—Langley smiles an all too familiar smile. Shimmering green light overtakes his form, and soon enough, the younger of the two princes of Asgard stands before her.

She staggers back. “What the—How the—I mean, I know how, but you—I—”

Loki stands by whilst Sigyn flounders, visibly amused.

Face scrunched up, she cries, “Have you been doing this all day?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he tells her.

She does. All at once, her mind brings forth every moment she’d spent with Langley—Prince Loki—throughout the day.

 _That’s why he’d been slow on the uptake during drills,_ she realizes, _and he’d only seemed pale because he didn’t know Langley well enough to get the color of his skin just right._

“Why,” she asks, unable to think of anything else to say.

In lieu of answering, he inquires, “Do you know why your trick from the other week didn’t work?”

Sighing, Sigyn forces herself not to roll her eyes. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Because you’re a god?”

In spite of the pleasure he seems to take from her guess, he replies, “No.”

Unable to keep the snark from her voice, she says, “‘No,’ you’re not a god; or ‘no,’ that’s not why?”

His smile grows further. “No, that’s not why,” he answers.

She places a hand on her hip. “Why, then?”

Leaning down, he says, “You can’t trick a trickster.”

Surprised and pleased with the validation she finds in his words, Sigyn blushes and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. However, before she can even think of a response, something else occurs to her. “Wait; where’s Langley?”

Loki’s cover would’ve been blown if Langley had showed up to work. Ergo, he must have ensured that Langley wouldn’t be coming in today.

The prince waves a hand. “He’s fine.” She doesn’t find his words very comforting and gives him a flat look. Not quite sighing, he divulges, “I disguised myself as you and gave him the day off.”

Sigyn scowls. “Great.” _Now, I’m going to have to justify that to my superiors._

“Anyway,” she says, turning and striding out of the garrison. “I have to go watch a bunch of sweaty men jump up and down for the next few hours, so if you’ll excuse me.”

He grabs her arm, and she turns back to face him. “Hold on. You understand why I did this, right?”

She raises an eyebrow. “To train me to see through illusions?”

“Yes.” Looking pleasantly surprised, he releases her arm. “Very good.”

Sigyn tries not to take his astonishment personally.

“Thanks,” she sighs. “Can I go now?”

The corners of his mouth turning down, he nods. “Sure.”

“Great,” she repeats. She slips her helmet on and bows before stalking away. It’s only when she reaches the training arena that she realizes the prince had borne witness to the immensely inappropriate incident in the commissary.

She sighs, “Fuck.”

* * *

Six months into her training with Loki, he deems her ready to learn how to alter her own form.

After explaining the details of the transformation in their usual meeting place, he instructs, “Since you’re just starting out, I want you to choose someone that you know well enough to be able to visualize every aspect of their appearance.”

Sigyn rubs her hands together in contemplation. Reflecting on who she knows best, she decides, “My mother.”

His hair flutters in the wind as he shakes his head. “I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Right.” She bites her lip. “Haldana, then.”

“Very well.” He nods and gestures for her to proceed.

Sigyn closes her eyes and envisions her sister. She focuses on one part of her body at a time. Her hair grows longer and golden. Her skin becomes smoother and fair. Her frame grows taller and more slender.

When she opens her eyes, Loki is standing closer to her and scrutinizing her work. He circles her, eyes flitting up and down her figure. When he comes around to face her, his gaze fixes onto her face. “Your eyes,” he says.

“What,” she asks, blinking nervously.

“They’re still brown,” he informs her.

“Oh.” She closes her eyes again, imagining them shifting from a dark brown to a vibrant blue.

Loki nods when he sees the change in color. “Excellent. I do believe such an illusion would be imperceptible to the layman.”

Sigyn beams, clasping her now long-fingered hands in front of her.

“However,” he goes on. “This is only one half of pulling of this trick. The other is to be able to make people believe that you _are_ Haldana.”

She nods, pursing her lips in contemplation. “And how would I do that?”

He smiles. “I have an idea.”

“Wait,” she whispers a few minutes later, tugging at his arm just before they’re in sight of the Warrior’s Arena. “What if Haldana is there?”

“Then you can give her a scare,” he proposes as he tries to drag her past the corner of the Mead Hall.

She pulls at his arm again. “What if the Lady Sif is there? I promised her I’d never return.”

“Well, I outrank her in every way, shape and form, and I’m giving you permission,” he retorts, yanking her along with him.

As they step into the arena, the prince’s friends take notice of them. Thankfully, Sigyn notes, her sister is not present.

Unfortunately, Sif is.

Considering Haldana’s relationship with the goddess, it’s no surprise that Sif is quick to make her way over to Sigyn. “Hi, ‘Dana,” she greets. “Where’s Aerick?”

“Aerick,” Sigyn parrots, brow furrowing. _Who’s Aerick?_

“Crap,” she hears Loki mutter under his breath. She turns to regard him, and her eyes latch onto the familiar sight of her sister. Haldana is wearing her armor, sword hanging at her hip. Her lengthy hair is piled on top of her head in a stylish, braided bun.

 _Crap,_ her mind echoes.

“Loki,” Haldana angrily snaps, striding up to him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh,” he counters. “As much as I’d love to take credit, this is not my doing.”

Haldana scoffs, turning to appraise Sigyn. “I find that hard to believe.”

Seeing no point in continuing this deception, Sigyn drops the illusion, reverting to her own form. “Surprise,” she whispers, waving her hands in an attempt to conceal her trepidation.

Haldana’s mouth hangs open, and Sif shouts her friend’s earlier grievance, “What is the meaning of this?”

Ignoring Sif, Sigyn addresses Haldana, “Who’s Aerick?”

Disconcerted, Haldana looks at Sif. “What?”

Tone remorseful, Sif whispers, “I thought it was you.”

Sigyn refrains from smiling at the fact that she’d managed to fool her sister’s best friend. Eyes darting to Loki, she finds that he’s holding a grin back, as well.

Haldana is quick to catch on. “Wait; has Loki been teaching you magic?”

“Yes,” Sigyn replies, voice a bit high-pitched. “Have you been screwing someone named Aerick?”

“Yes,” Haldana shrieks, face heating up.

A dismayed, indignant noise slips past Sigyn’s lips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Haldana sighs, admitting, “Aerick is a lesser lord, so my parents don’t approve of the match.”

Sigyn nods, taking in the information. It makes sense. Haldana’s parents are awfully judgmental.

Abruptly, Haldana grips Sigyn’s collar and leans in close. “Do _not_ tell Father,” she grits out.

Sigyn wrestles Haldana’s hand away. “I would never do that.” It wouldn’t be fair, really. Not when her sister has kept her attraction to women a secret for so long.

“Good.” Haldana nods, pleased with her sister’s compliance. “Now, why didn’t _you_ tell me about this,” she asks, pointing at Loki.

Sigyn shrugs. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem too important,” she lies, avoiding everyone's eyes.

In truth, a part of her had feared her sister would not appreciate her spending time with the prince. He is Haldana’s friend. Their worlds had always been separate, intersecting only at the point of their shared father.

A father who loved Haldana and never acknowledged Sigyn.

Maybe if she learned how to use her magic, Sigyn had thought, that could change.


	4. Flannfluga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read, comment & enjoy!

Sigyn spends far too much time with Loki.

At least, that’s what Sif thinks.

She’s always coming around the Warriors’ Arena with him, despite her vow to never return after their duel. Sif even sees her on the street with him, laughing and talking as though she hasn’t a care in the world.

A prince should not be consorting with a woman of her stature. It’s scandalous, really.

The Lady Magnhildr agrees with her, much to Sif’s relief.

“She’s a gold digger, just like her mother,” Magnhildr asserts as she, Haldana and Sif share lunch in the picturesque courtyard of her estate on a sunny afternoon.

The Lord Andor’s estate isn’t quite as grand as the manor in which Sif grew up, but it’s still impressive. It’s no more than two blocks from the palace, and shines with about half as much gold.

“Mother, please,” Haldana objects.

Magnhildr shrugs. “I’m merely being truthful.”

Sif nods while Haldana grumbles, “No, you’re not,” into her teacup.

Magnhildr is a distinguished lady, highborn, and in Sif’s opinion, the ideal family matriarch. She is no longer as beautiful as she was in her youth, but has remained pretty in her midlife, having none of the crow’s feet typical of women her age. She regards her daughter with patience. “How would you explain it, then?”

“I don’t know, Mother,” Haldana says, setting down her tea. “Maybe she wants him to teach her how to use her magic, which he offered to do, completely unprompted.”

Sif snorts, “I find that hard to believe.”

Haldana sighs, “Come now—”

“Love, don’t you understand,” Magnhildr asks, reaching over to stroke her daughter’s cheek. “She’s trying to take from you what is yours.”

Grimacing, Haldana pinches the bridge of her nose. “For the _last_ time, I am not going to marry Loki.”

“Well, why not,” her mother inquires, tone patient as ever.

“You know why,” she grunts, eyes growing glassy.

The corner of Sif’s mouth turns down in sympathy. Haldana has been dating Aerick for a little over a century now. When he’d first started courting her, she had brought up the issue with her parents, but they had vetoed the match. Since then, their relationship has been a secret to which only their close friends are privy. Sif can’t help but be annoyed that Haldana’s half-sister is now in the loop thanks to Loki.

“Enough with this,” Magnhildr snaps, patience finally giving way. “You will not marry down. That is final.”

Haldana falls silent, swallowing thickly.

“Besides,” her mother goes on. “That isn’t the only thing that woman is trying to steal from you. Just the other day, she came to your father with an offer to buy that house she rents from him.”

Confused at the correlation, Sif raises an eyebrow.

Haldana rolls her eyes, “What on Asgard does that have to do with me?”

“You’ll own that house one day, dear,” Magnhildr tells her.

“Great,” Haldana grumbles. “A house in which I’ll never live and from which I don’t need the revenue.”

“Oh, enough,” Magnhildr scolds. Raising a hand, she calls to one of the servants, “Gyda, clear my place.” As the serving girl steps forward to do as instructed, Magnhildr rises and steps around the table. She kisses her daughter on the head. “You girls stay as long as you like.”

Once her mother has gone back into the house, Haldana’s meager smile turns into a sneer. “You know, I can see why Sigyn hates her so much.”

“Don’t say that,” Sif chides. “She’s your mother.”

Not for the first time today, Haldana sighs. “Mothers can be difficult sometimes.”

Sif, a woman whose mother died the day she was born, looks away. “I wouldn’t know.”

Later that same day, Sif sees Loki sitting in a posh bistro down the road from the palace. He’s dressed more casually than usual, but still looks regal with his green attire. Her mouth opens to impart a greeting, but she clamps it shut when the person he’s with becomes visible.

“Okay,” Sigyn giggles, flipping her ever-lengthening hair over her shoulder. “I have one.”

Loki waves a hand, grinning. “Please.”

On impulse, Sif ducks behind a post to avoid being spotted. She pokes her head out just enough so that she can see the two Asgardians.

Putting on a straight face, Sigyn says, “Are those space pants? Because—”

“Your ass is out of this realm,” he finishes.

“Damn it,” she shrieks. Bitterly, she pushes her food around with her fork before taking a bite. “Your turn.”

Tapping his chin, Loki takes a moment to think.

“Or you could just admit defeat,” the peasant girl suggests, shrugging.

“No,” he declines, smirking. “Alright, here we go. Do you believe in love at first sight, or—”

Sigyn interrupts, “Should I walk by again?”

Loki groans, shaking his head. “Perhaps we should both give up. Neither of us is going to win.”

“No,” Sigyn insists. “I’ve got one I’m sure you’ve never heard before.”

“Very well,” he concedes. “Let’s hear it.”

 _They’re so obviously together,_ Sif thinks, narrowing her eyes. _How disgraceful._

She smiles, evidently certain of her victory. “My love for you is like a candle.”

A beat passes in which Loki appears to be in deep contemplation, then he asks, “Why?”

“If you forget about me, I will burn your fucking house down,” she gushes, pumping her fist in celebration. “I win!”

“That is not a pick-up line,” he protests. “It’s a threat.”

She shakes her head. “It counts.”

“No, it does not,” he argues.

“Wow. You are such a sore loser,” Sigyn taunts, head tilting to one side.

An indignant, shocked noise gets caught in Loki’s throat. “I could have you beheaded for that, you know.”

As with all of the God of Mischief’s jokes, his jest strikes a cord of uneasiness in Sif. She’s never quite sure that he doesn’t mean what he says. Although, she doesn’t know why she cares about what happens to Haldana’s sister.

Sigyn snorts in disbelief, either unafraid or simply unwise, and a swell of resentment for her surges through Sif. “As much fun as that would be, I must be on my way.”

“Ah,” he smiles. “Another time then.”

She nods, standing from her chair. “I look forward to it.”

She fishes through the coin purse at her waist, likely to pay for her meal, but Loki waves her off. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

Looking up from her purse, hand frozen mid-dig, she asks, “Are you sure?”

“I think I can afford it,” he assures her.

“Alright,” Sigyn croons, tightening the thong around the opening of her purse. “Just don’t come crying to me when you can’t pay the bills.”

They both laugh and say their farewells. Sif leans farther back into the post when Sigyn passes her, expelling a relieved breath as she goes unnoticed. She watches the soldier head down the street for a few seconds before looking back at Loki.

Sif doesn’t like what she sees.

Loki is staring straight at her, a placid smile on his face. He gives a little wave.

 _He probably knew I was here the entire time,_ she thinks, apprehension flaring through her. Without sparing another moment, she turns and darts after the peasant, in part so she can confront the woman, but mostly so that she can escape Loki.

She tails Sigyn for several minutes, following her down side streets and through alleyways. She maintains a safe distance so as to not be spotted. At last, Sigyn stops at a one-story dwelling and knocks at the door. Sif lurks in an entryway across the road, just out of earshot.

Another woman opens the door, smiling as she greets Sigyn. She has dark skin and long hair held back in a thick ponytail. Sif can’t tell much else from this distance, but given how close they stand to one another, it’s clear that they’re good friends.

She changes her mind when she sees them kiss.

 _Holy shit,_ her mind screams.

The women exchange a few words and kiss _again._ The darker woman then heads down the street, and Sigyn enters the house, closing the door behind her.

Once the unfamiliar woman is far enough away, Sif scampers over to the front door of the wooden abode and knocks until Sigyn opens the door.

“Did you forget something, ba—Oh, fuck,” Sigyn says, staring up at her in a mix of shock and fear.

“Are you a flannfluga,” Sif blurts out, unable to help herself.

Sigyn’s breathing turns shallow, and she almost looks as though she’s going to faint. Suddenly, her hands snaps out, coming to grip Sif’s wrist. “I know you hate me, but you _can’t tell anyone,”_ she pleads, eyes wide and imploring. “It wouldn’t just ruin my life,” she goes on. “It’ll ruin m-my girlfriend’s life, as well.”

_No, this doesn’t make sense._

“Wait, so,” Sif starts, prying her arm away. “You’re not trying to seduce Loki?”

Sigyn freezes in the midst of wringing her hands in front of her. “I—What?”

Sif tries to justify her question, shrugging. “You spend so much time with him.”

“We’re friends,” Sigyn attests, brow furrowing.

The two women fall silent after that. Sigyn starts biting her lip, while Sif keeps her expression as neutral as possible.

Then, “Listen,” Sigyn sighs. “I know that you hold the Lady Magnhildr in high regard, but she is paranoid when it comes to me. She believes I’m trying to screw over her daughter, so much so that she imagines ridiculous things.”

Unbidden, Sif finds herself nodding. “She did mention your house.”

“What,” Sigyn asks, momentarily distracted. “Did she say why my father wouldn’t sell?”

She did, Sif thinks, but it seems cruel to tell Sigyn considering the Lady Magnhildr was wrong about the woman’s relationship with Loki. It’s clear now that Sigyn truly has no interest in hurting Haldana.

“No,” Sif lies. “She didn’t.”

Sigyn’s shoulders droop in disappointment. “Oh.”

Another lapse in conversation ensues, both women having ducked their heads to reflect on the situation. Sigyn’s grip on the door tightens, the wood creaking under her hold.

Voice low, Sif discloses, “I won’t tell anyone.”

When Sigyn looks up, her eyes are glassy. Sif is reluctantly reminded of Haldana’s crestfallen expression from earlier in the day.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

* * *

Not a week has passed before Sif once more finds herself dining at the Lord Andor’s household.

She, Haldana, Magnhildr and Andor engage in small talk in the blue, beautifully decorated sitting room while the servants prepare their meal. The girls tell Haldana’s parents about their most recent crusade, a battle with a terrible demon that had escaped from Muspelheim. Magnhildr has never been very fond of these kinds of stories, and she wrinkles her nose at every gruesome detail recounted.

As a girl, Haldana had been captivated by the idea of being a warrior of Asgard. Her mother had been in staunch opposition to the mere notion of Haldana growing up to be anything other than a refined lady. It was only when Sif had begun training with her father, the Lord Trygve, that Magnhildr had permitted Haldana to learn how to fight.

Before long, Gyda announces that the appetizers are ready. The four nobles take their seats in the expansive, pink and golden dining room.

Once everyone is settled, Magnhildr cheerfully asks if anyone would like to make a toast.

Sif reaches for her glass, but Gyda beats her to the punch, saying, “I would,” and holding up her own cup.

Taken aback, everyone turns to regard the serving girl as glowing pink magic travels up her body, leaving Sigyn in her wake. She wears her customary knee-length cobalt blue dress and soldier boots.

Alarmed, Sif grabs the utensil closest to her—a soup spoon—and takes a defensive position.

“What is the meaning of this,” Andor roars. He’s usually a calm, gentle man, and his demeanor conveys as much. His eyes crinkle with years of laughter, and his blonde hair has grown gray over the centuries. Now, though, he looks uncharacteristically malicious.

The devious smile on his eldest child’s face merely grows at the commotion, and the glass in her hand vanishes into thin air. “I’ve never been in this room before,” she comments, as though she’s unbothered by their reactions. “Of course, I’ve never made it past the foyer.”

Haldana shakes her head good-naturedly. “What are you doing here, Sigyn?”

Pointing at her, Sigyn exclaims, “I’m glad you asked, dear sister. You see,” she turns to Andor and Magnhildr, “a very intriguing secret has recently been brought to my attention.”

 _Oh, no,_ Sif thinks, eyes darting to Haldana as the younger woman chokes on an anxious breath.

“It may interest you to know,” Sigyn goes on, “that Haldana here is in a clandestine relationship with one Lord Aerick.”

Sif snarls in outrage at the traitorous snake. “How _dare_ you?”

In contrast, Magnhildr grows very quiet. “What,” she asks, turning to her daughter.

“Mother, listen, I—Sigyn, what the _fuck_ —I did not mean for this to happen,” Haldana defends, flustered and frantic.

 _“And,”_ Sigyn continues, utterly calm. “If I may divulge a secret about myself, I am a flannfluga.”

At a complete loss, Sif realizes that she has no idea what Sigyn’s gambit is.

“What,” Magnhildr asks, momentarily deterred from berating her daughter.

“Flannfluga,” Sigyn repeats, as though explaining something to a small child. “‘She who flees the male sex organ?’ I know it’s a weird phrase, but you get it.”

Thoroughly distracted now, Magnhildr narrows her eyes at her husband’s bastard. “Why would you tell us this?”

Sigyn winces spuriously, looking entirely pleased with herself. “Because if this got out, it _might_ sully your family’s reputation.”

“You’re blackmailing us,” Andor deadpans.

She points at her father, but keeps her eyes fixed on the lady of the house. “Precisely. If you don’t let Haldana and the Lord Aerick be together, I’m going to share the news about my sexuality with everyone in Asgard.”

Shock washes over the other occupants of the room, and Sif feels some of her anxiety dislodge from inside her chest.

Magnhildr scoffs. “What makes you think we’ll care?”

Sigyn raises her brow. “I will strongly imply—blatantly state, really—that I get it from my father, who has been embroiled in many a same-sex affair.”

Magnhildr gives a scandalized gasp, while Andor barks out a disbelieving laugh, indignant. “You would dishonor yourself with lies,” he asks.

“Honor is expensive,” she calmly rebuts, stalking towards him. “And much like my own house, I cannot afford it.”

“Is that what you want,” he asks, tone imploring. “Because we can revisi—”

“No,” she interjects, slapping the mahogany table in time with her words. “Pay attention. I want what I asked for, so make it happen.”

She turns then, striding out of the room. “You have three days,” she calls, holding up just as many fingers.

Two days later, Haldana and Aerick announce their engagement.


	5. Day-Drinking

As she gets ready, Sigyn tries her best to ignore Norell’s glares.

She picks up gold, dangly earrings, and Norell finally ends her silent treatment. “Oh, you’re putting on jewelry now?”

Sigyn tosses her earrings onto the dresser, turning to face her girlfriend. “I don’t understand how you can _still_ be mad about this.”

Norell’s face contorts in mock confusion. “You mean, how could I be mad about you jeopardizing both our livelihoods without running it by me?”

“It was two _years_ ago,” Sigyn rebuts, leaning forward.

“And you have never apologized,” Norell screams, standing from Sigyn’s bed.

Sigyn grits her teeth. “Why would I apologize for helping my little sister be with the man she loves?”

Norell sputters for a few seconds before saying, “Because you threatened to out yourself—therefore _me,_ by extension—in order to get it done!”

“It was an empty threat,” Sigyn insists. “I knew they weren’t going to call my bluff. I was never going to actually do it. _Everything is fine.”_

“Oh, good. ‘Fine,’” Norell remarks, crossing her arms and turning away. “Exactly how you _want_ a relationship to be. Just ‘fine.’”

Sigyn’s mouth opens and closes, but no response passes her lips. Her relationship with Norell has been challenging as of late. Well, for the past few years, really.

Norell has always thought that Sigyn is too cynical about her job, but it’s not like she ever has to deal with being the only woman at work, what with being a _seamstress._

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a seamstress. Without them, no one in Asgard would have clothes. It’s simply more stressful to be a soldier. That’s just an _objective_ fact.

Norell also thinks that Sigyn doesn’t know how to healthily process her emotions, which is ridiculous. Sure, for a while there, she’d foolishly desired validation from her father, but she’s since realized that he’ll always have a low opinion of her, so she doesn’t think about it anymore.

_That’s healthy, right?_

Of course, the biggest issue of all is the Loki Problem.

“So,” Norell speaks up just as Sigyn finishes braiding her hair to the side. “Is Prince Loki going to be at your sister’s anniversary party?”

_Here we go._

“No,” Sigyn informs her, finally slipping on her earrings. “He is in Alfheim on a diplomatic mission.”

Norell responds only by rolling her eyes.

“What,” Sigyn snaps.

Norell shrugs. “Nothing. You just always seem to know exactly where he is.”

“Because we’re friends,” she shrieks, not for the first time. “Do you want to know where Pontus or Quimby are?”

She shrugs again, looking as though she doesn’t believe Sigyn knows where they are. “Sure. Where?”

Sigyn flounders, having not actually expected Norell to inquire about her other friends’ whereabouts. “They’re . . . in Asgard. Probably.”

Norell gives her a look as though to say, _Point made._

“Whatever,” Sigyn grumbles, throwing a silk scarf she'd borrowed from Haldana over her shoulders and moving to leave the room. This is the first blue-blood event she’s ever been invited to, and she is not about to be late. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

As she opens her bedroom door, she hears Norell mutter, “You never have time for us anymore,” but she doesn’t stop to rebuke her girlfriend’s statement. As much as she hates to admit it, it’s true.

* * *

Loki sends her a letter upon his return from Alfheim.

_Sigyn,_

_The talks with the Light Elves have been dreadfully boring._

_Most regrettably, it seems as though they are going to continue for some time. The Lord Fray of Vanaheim has returned with us, so I will likely be in and out of meetings with him and the Allfather for the next several weeks. As such, I do not imagine we will see very much of each other for the duration of this never-ending summit. Not in person, at least._

_In the past few years, you have displayed a sublime propensity for illusionary magic. I think it is time that you learn one of the more complicated and dangerous techniques of sorcery: astral projection._

_Make sure you are in a non-public place at midday tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_Loki._

“He signed the letter, _‘Yours,’”_ Pontus observes from over her shoulder as the two of them sit at the bar of a loud, dingy tavern not far from her house. “What; is he in love with you?”

Sigyn rolls her eyes at the thought of a prince of Asgard being in love with her. “Please. That’s just how people sign letters,” she apprises him.

He purses his lips. “And you know this how? Do you even receive letters from anyone else?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you receive letters from anyone _at all?”_

Pontus chuckles and shakes his head, acquiescing. A beat passes, and he inquires, “Say, when’s that letter dated?”

Her brow furrows. “Why do you care?”

He shrugs. “I don’t, but he said ‘tomorrow,’ right?”

Following his train of thought, Sigyn turns over the envelope. The postmark is from yesterday.

“And it’s about a quarter of an hour to midday, wouldn’t you say,” Pontus remarks, nonchalantly taking a sip at his tankard of mead.

Abruptly, Sigyn shoves her stool backward, jumping from her seat, and throwing the payment for her drink onto the bar counter. As she runs from the pub, she can hear Pontus’s booming laughter behind her.

She winds her way through the masses on the streets, stumbling past vendors and groups of children playing in the roadway. Upon reaching her front door, she fumbles with her key for a _ridiculous_ amount of time before getting it open. She rushes up the stairs to her room, throwing off her armor as she goes.

Her bedroom, like the rest of her house, is comfy and nice, but not extravagant in any way. She has various trinkets strewn about the room, most of which are souvenirs from Haldana’s travels. All of her furniture is from her childhood, so her room is unfortunately rather juvenile.

Once in front of the mirror in her bathroom, she alters her remaining clothes into a simple pink dress. As quickly as she can, she re-braids her hair and brushes her teeth to get the smell of alcohol off her breath. _This is what I get for day-drinking._

After hastily making her bed, she’s contemplating whether or not she should remove her boots when a green-clad figure materializes in front of her.

“Hi,” she squeaks, tugging at her braid. “How was Alfheim?”

Loki makes a tired, flippant gesture, telling her, “Same as always.”

“I’m sure, but I’ve never been there before,” she informs him.

“Oh.” He nods in understanding. “How many of the other worlds have you been to?”

A little embarrassed, she tells him, “I’ve only been to Vanaheim on military tours.”

“Ah, well, perhaps I’ll take you with me one of these days,” he suggests.

“Yeah, right,” she snorts, disbelieving. “The Bifrӧst is the only way out of Asgard. As if the Lord Heimdall would let me through with you.”

Brusquely, Loki changes the subject. “Let’s get on with the lesson.”

Sigyn is nonplussed by the unexpected shift in conversation, but she decides to let the topic drop, as well.

“Before you is my astral form, or more commonly, my spirit,” he explains.

She steps forward almost timidly. “Can you feel things,” she wonders aloud.

“I can partially interact with objects and beings in the material world,” he tells her. “And of course, astral forms can interact with one another just as physical forms do.”

Sigyn nods, absorbing the information. Before she’d met Loki, she had no knowledge of much of what she’s learned from him. She’d certainly never imagined that there was an astral realm, a whole other _world_ for existence. The fact that she has access to any of it is nothing short of astonishing.

“It takes significant concentration to be able to separate one’s material and astral forms,” he expounds, stepping closer. “For educational purposes, I will facilitate the first separation of your two forms,” his hand flying out to reach through her chest and come into contact with something _inside_ of her that she hadn’t previously known was there.

Next thing she knows, she’s standing over the crumpled form of her own body.

“Ooh,” she breathes out anxiously, looking down at her hands. They appear perfectly corporeal. She doesn’t feel any lighter than usual. Although, she does feel as though she isn’t really _here._ “This is so creepy.”

She peers up at Loki, finding him sporting a rather amused expression. “Warn me next time you do something like that, why don’t you,” she growls.

He smiles wider. “Sorry. I thought it would be more fun this way.”

“Perhaps for you,” she mutters under her breath, watching her foot pass through her own skull as her material form lies supine and wholly unresponsive on the floor. She walks around her room, testing how it feels to walk around. At last, she comes to the door. She reaches to open it, but her hand passes through the knob, pink light flashing around the appendage. Spurred by a sudden thought, she turns back to Loki. “Why is our magic different?”

His brow furrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mine is pink, and yours is green,” she elaborates. “Why is that? It’s not because I’m a girl, is it?” That would be such a stupid reason.

“Hardly,” he laughs, probably amused by her irked expression. “My mother says the color is a reflection of one’s soul. Her magic is blue, which makes sense. Power, integrity, and whatnot.”

Sigyn hums in contemplation, wondering what her color symbolizes. Love? Compassion? _Not exactly how I would describe myself,_ she thinks idly.

Something else occurs to her, and her lips quirk mischievously. “Green, huh? Is there someone you’re jealous of,” she teases.

Her smile drops as she watches his lips twist in discontent, his eyes not reflecting the mirth she had been anticipating. She worries that she may have hit upon something of which he did not wish to speak. Quick to apologize, she rushes out, “Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he assures her, shaking his head. For the second time today, he changes the subject. “I have a meeting with the party from Alfheim, so I must be on my way.”

A flicker of disbelief crosses her mind, but she keeps her expression neutral. “Of course, Your Highness. Unti—Wait; how do I get back into my body,” she exclaims, frantic.

“Ah.” Loki smiles mischievously. “That is for you to figure out.”

* * *

“So, how long did it take,” Haldana asks cheekily, hanging upside down off the end of Sigyn’s bed. Her golden hair kisses the knitted rug on the floor.

Sigyn groans. “Almost an hour.” She’d tried everything to return to her material form: meditation; levitating and dropping hard objects over her head in an attempt to shock herself awake; even lying down in the same space as her physical body. Eventually, cracking herself across the face _hard_ was the thing that did it.

“I imagine it will take me a few years to get the hang of that particular trick,” Sigyn grumbles, leaning back on her dresser.

Haldana’s gaze lands on something next to her sister. Her arm flies up, finger pointing with insistence. “What is that?”

Sigyn turns her head to the side, looking down to find an ornate box resting in the center of her dresser’s surface. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, standing up straight. She picks up the small box, running her fingers over its edges. The object appears to be made of wood, though not of any sort she’s seen before. It’s almost glittery, as though enchanted. It sports an intricate design, perfectly hand-carved. She finds a clasp on the front of the box and flips it open. The lid rises gradually to reveal a gamboling statuette of a fae couple and a stirring tune. She watches the two miniature figures dance together in time with the melody. They move as though independent of both each other and the device, though they never part or leave the confines of the box. “Wow,” she breathes, awestruck.

The sheets of the bed rustle as her sister rises and comes to stand by her side. She regards Haldana with a sideways look. “Have you ever seen anything quite like—What’s wrong?”

Haldana appears afflicted. In her hands is a slip of paper she’d picked up from the top of the dresser. Wordlessly, she hands it over to Sigyn.

_An enchanted music box for an enchanting woman._

_-  Loki_

Charmed by the complimentary message and pleased that she had correctly assessed the device’s magical quality, Sigyn smiles, biting her lip. Part of her is used to Loki’s extravagant way of speaking—and writing—but sometimes she can’t help but flush pleasantly at his words.

Not that she appreciates his sentiments more than other people’s.

Well, maybe a little, but that makes sense because a prince.

Not that she cares that he’s a prince. She’d only care about that if she were attracted to men.

Not that she thinks of Loki in terms of attraction. They’re just friends.

Sure, he’s gorgeous, intelligent, funny, strong, char—

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

“I have to go,” she suddenly blurts out, catching her sister off-guard.

Haldana raises an eyebrow, visibly suspicious. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Running about the room, Sigyn throws on her outerwear and shoes. “You can stay, if you’d like. My mother will probably make a snack for you, provided you ask nicely.”

Once at the door, she regards her still-skeptical sister with a wobbly smile. “I will be back in a few hours.” With that, she rushes out of the house and through the streets. In almost no time at all, she arrives at Norell’s house. She uses her key to unlock the door before slipping it off her keyring and placing it on the counter.

The noise of the key clicking against the wood draws Norell’s attention from her place on the couch. She pauses in her needlework and smiles at Sigyn.

Before Norell can say a word in greeting, Sigyn tells her, “We need to break up.”


	6. Captain's Cape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read, comment & enjoy!

Sigyn waits nervously in a hallway on the top floor of the garrison. Major Erling, the head of her division, had sought her out and told her to follow him. He’d led her all the way to the offices of those that run Asgard’s forces before disappearing into the biggest one fifteen minutes ago. It’s only reasonable that she be apprehensive, frankly.

 _What could this be about,_ she wonders, wringing her hands in her lap. _Am I in trouble?_

Her mind comes up with a million worst-case scenarios, none of which truly make any sense. For instance, if they’d somehow found out about her attraction to women, they couldn’t dismiss her solely on that basis. It’s frowned upon, but not illegal. Moreover, how would they have even uncovered such information? She hasn’t dated a women for over a decade; not since she realized she was attracted to men, as well.

Well, one man in particular.

“Lieutenant Sigyn,” Major Erling calls, pulling her away from her errant thoughts. “We’re ready for you.”

 _But am I ready for you,_ she gripes internally as she heads into the office and stands at attention before a rather ornate desk as instructed.

Major Erling stands beside the door. Across from her are Commander Colborn of the Queen’s Guard and _Commander Hogun, leader of the Asgardian Forces._

“Lieutenant,” Commander Hogun greets.

“Commanders,” she returns.

Commander Hogun gets right to it. “Your commanding officers have taken note of your skill and dedication, and I myself have seen your spars with Prince Loki and the Lady Haldana. As such, it has been decided that you will receive a promotion.”

A folded soldier’s cape is placed on the desk. Sigyn’s eyes widen considerably, and her breath catches in her throat. The deep green cape is standard for captains.

_Holy shit._

Still reeling from surprise, she picks up the cape, her fingers running over the plush fabric.

“You will also receive a unit transfer,” Commander Colborn adds, “to the Queen’s Guard.”

_Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shi—_

Utterly astonished and unable to help herself, Sigyn asks, “I will?”

“Yes,” Commander Hogun assures her, lips quirking ever so slightly in amusement. “We believe your talents in illusionary magic will prove very useful.”

Sigyn bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too broadly. “Thank you, Sir. I am honored.”

Commander Colborn hands her the signature blue cloth those in the Queen’s Guard tie around their biceps. “Your first day on duty will be in a little under two weeks. The royal family is throwing something of a ball, and you will be on the Queen’s detail, shadowing myself.”

Sigyn gnaws on her bottom lip. _Sounds like a pretty high-stress first day,_ she thinks to herself, pocketing the handkerchief.

“Don’t worry,” Commander Colborn reassures her, having taken notice of her anxiety. “It’s basically just high-alert sentry duty.”

The meeting goes on for a little longer, but she’s so excited that it all blows past her. Being appointed to a royal guard unit is an incredible achievement. For those not of noble birth, it’s really the furthest their careers can go, besides being promoted to major. Not to mention, she’s a woman.

A few additional details are ironed out before she’s dismissed, and as she stands out in the hall afterward, captain’s cape clutched to her chest and nerves buzzing with excitement, the first thing that comes to her mind is that she can’t wait to tell Loki.


	7. Not Awful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read, comment and enjoy!

“You’re in a good mood, brother,” Thor observes, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why?”

Loki’s slight smile shifts into a full-on grin. “What; am I not allowed to be happy?”

Thor’s eyes run over every crevice in the hall, looking for something that could pop out at any moment. Usually, Loki is only visibly pleased when planning a prank on him, and Thor is not in the mood to get stabbed today. “No,” he says slowly, keeping pace with his brother. “I’m merely curious.”

Loki hums in complacency. “If you must know, I have something planned for this morning.”

“I knew it,” Thor shouts. He stops and pulls out Mjolnir, ready to fend off whatever trick Loki has prepared.

Loki gives him a mild glare, unimpressed. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

Shifting awkwardly on his feet, Thor lowers Mjolnir. “I see.” They resume walking. “Who is the unfortunate soul, then?”

“It’s not a prank,” Loki snaps, composure dropping for half a moment. He takes a deep, calming breath. “I am going to ask Sigyn to accompany me to next weekend’s festivities.”

Thor raises his brow, pleasantly surprised. As they step out into the plaza beside the palace, he taunts, “I’ve always thought you liked her.”

Ever since the day the two of them had first met, Loki had been enthralled by Sigyn. The entire week afterward, he had wondered how many other people in the realm had magical abilities and why with all his observational skills he had never noticed the gifted soldier that looked like their friend. Not two months later, he’d seen them sparring together, wondering why his brother had decided to torture himself by becoming close with a woman he could never have. Their father wouldn’t allow one of his sons to court—let alone marry—a bastard peasant.

From over Loki’s shoulder, he can see the woman in question and her sister coming towards them. “And it appears you’re in luck; she seems rather pleased to see you.”

Loki turns just as Sigyn skips up to greet him. “Hi,” she chirps. She fingers the cape of her uniform. “Notice anything different about me?”

Before Thor can hear Loki’s response, Haldana tugs him out of earshot. “She made captain,” she tells him. “First woman in nearly three-thousand years.”

Thor makes a noise of amazement. “That is quite admirable. Perhaps I should offer her my congratulations afterward.”

Haldana nods absentmindedly. “It would be more than our father did,” she grumbles, just loud enough for him to hear. Then her nose twitches in bewilderment. “Wait; ‘afterward?’” She levels him with a wary look, one eyebrow quirked. “After what?”

Realizing his mistake, Thor shrugs and tries to look ignorant, not wanting to jeopardize Loki’s for-once-not-awful plans. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Haldana hisses, lips pulled into a tense scowl. She casts a distrustful eye on Loki and slides her sword from its sheath. “Does Loki have some sort of scheme?”

Fleetingly, Thor feels badly for his brother. Both he and Haldana had immediately assumed Loki had ill intentions. He grabs her wrist, halting her sword’s withdrawal. “No, nothing like that.”

“What, then,” she demands, dropping her weapon’s hilt.

Thor gives a resigned sigh. “Loki is going to ask your sister to the feast,” he divulges.

Haldana’s head twists away from him, and he follows her gaze. Their siblings are standing close to each other, chatting and smiling. Loki isn’t usually very cheerful, so Thor finds the sight rather endearing. Glancing at Haldana, it’s clear she doesn’t share his sentiment.

The young goddess looks positively stricken. “He can’t,” she insists, voice panicked. “We have to stop him!”

“Why,” he asks, curious as to why she seems so put out at the prospect of their siblings getting together. For a moment, he wonders if she’s one of those people that believes individuals of different social standings shouldn’t consort with one another. Though, that wouldn’t really make sense considering she married down the social ladder herself.

Haldana bites her lip and furrows her brow. Appearing to be in deep contemplation, her eyes dart around anxiously.

Something dawns on her, then. “She’s going to reject him.”

Thor watches Sigyn laugh at something Loki has said and twirl a strand of hair around her finger. He snorts in disbelief. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“No, she is,” Haldana reiterates, eyes alight with conviction. “You see, she’s—Borr, forgive me; I can’t believe I’m about to do this—She’s a flannfluga. She likes women.”

Thor is taken aback for a moment, but dread fills his chest all the same. Loki is about to be turned down by someone Thor is pretty sure is the girl of his dreams.

“Yeah, so,” Haldana continues nervously, voice quiet to Thor’s ears, almost as though she’s faded into the background. “Go say something—anything—to him, but be discreet. Don’t—”

Stepping away from Haldana with quick strides, Thor ignores her hushed instructions. He approaches his brother, who doesn’t seem too pleased to see him.

“Thor—” Loki begins resignedly.

In an attempt to appear casual, Thor throws an arm over his brother’s shoulders and clears his throat. “She’s a flannfluga, so, uh, you should forget, uh, you know,” he gets out quickly at a volume that might be a bit too loud.

“What are you on abou—”

Loki’s voice dies in his throat when his eyes fall on the manifestly mortified woman beside him.

Eyes wide and mouth hanging open in consternation, Sigyn’s face has drained of all its color. The relaxed smile she’d been sporting before has slipped from her face, and she looks nearly scared. She holds Loki’s eyes for a short moment before giving an anxious gasp and turning tail. She dashes away faster than anyone Thor has ever seen run. Haldana is quick to follow after her.

When he looks back at his brother, a part of Thor regrets relaying the information.

Loki looks utterly devastated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was short, but the next chapter is a big one!


	8. Mama's Boy

Loki is utterly devastated.

It’s no surprise that he is. After all, it’s been a week since he discovered he has no chance with the woman he’s been completely enamored with for  _ decades.  _ The woman with whom he had imagined—for all intents and purposes—he’d end up spending the rest of his days. He hasn’t seen her at all in the interim, either. He doesn’t know if she’s deliberately avoiding him or if she’s simply busy, but it’s nerve-racking nonetheless. 

Should he seek her out? Should he wait for her to come around, which may very well never happen? Should he confront Haldana and slit her throat for ruining his fucking li—

“Prince Loki,” a soft voice squeaks, tearing him away from his errant thoughts.

He turns, and standing in front of him—in the middle of the palace—is Sigyn. She looks the same as always: hair lightly mussed, slight form draped in bulky armor originally designed for a far broader man, and eyes sharp with carefully concealed acumen.

_ And her full lips, impossibly long lashes— _

Browed furrowed and lips pursed, she prompts, “Your Highness?”

“Yes,” he responds, shaking his head so as to not continue staring at her so intently. He must stop thinking about her like that. He has to get over her. Otherwise, he won’t be able to stand being around her, and he  _ needs  _ to have her around.

“Right, well,” chin up and almost challenging look in her eye, she tells him, “I would like to, um, clarify something.”

_ Oh, no. It’s really over.  _ Trying not to grimace too noticeably, he nods. “Please.”

Almost immediately, she blurts, “It’s not true,” as though a dam had burst and those had been the first and only words waiting on the other side. The urgency in her voice tells him this is what she’s wanted to say since she arrived. 

Unfortunately, he’s not quite sure what she means to convey. “What?”

Sigyn takes a deep breath and composes herself before proceeding. “I am not a flannfluga.”

“What,” he repeats, simply unable to process the idea that thing he’s been obsessing over for the past several days isn’t true.

“I am attracted to men and women. I  _ have  _ had relationships with women in the past,” she continues, voice conveying a false sense of calm. “If you feel you cannot be friends with me for that reason, that’s fine.”

For whatever reason, Loki finds himself turning to the floundering that usually accompanies Sigyn’s uneasiness. “No, I-I’m the same way.”

Her unaffected façade slips. “What?”

_ What the fuck am I saying,  _ he thinks, panicking.  _ She doesn’t need to know that yet. _

Lamely, he responds, “Ah, yeah. . . .”

He’s never told anyone outside of a few past lovers about this before, so he’s not quite sure what her reaction is going to be. It should be fine. She’s already confessed to having the same experience with attraction. She doesn’t say anything for several long seconds, her expression of thinly veiled shock unchanging. The longer she waits to speak, the higher his panic grows. He’s on the verge of backtracking when she suddenly grabs his hands and squeals, “That’s amazing! I’ve never met anyone else who’s . . . oh, dear, I wish there was a word for it.” She bites the inside of her cheek in contemplation. “Bi-something, I don’t know.”

Loki makes a non-committal noise, wholly distracted by the feeling of her hands in his. They’re appropriately calloused for a soldier’s hands, but feel smaller than he’d expected they would. He refrains from stroking the back of her hand with his thumb; it would probably freak her out.

“I won’t tell anyone, in case you’re worried about that,” she assures him, likely perplexed by his silence. 

“Oh, no,” he breathes, attention fixated on the concerned pout to her lips. “I trust you.”

At his admission, her cheeks flush in a way he’s only pictured in his mind. She mumbles something about how relieved she is and twists her fingers against his palms, which is probably her way of wringing her hands without letting go of his. Feeling her revert to her signature nervous tick, Loki finds his poise returning to him and decides to proceed with his plan to finally make her his, which starts with asking her to this weekend’s ball. “So, since it would appear as though our siblings are liars,” he drawls, delighting in the blush on her cheeks growing starker due to the renewed self-assurance in his voice. “I have something to ask you.”

She quirks an eyebrow, and her nose scrunches up in bemusement. “I don’t see what those two things have to do with one another, but alright.”

He smiles and squeezes her hands. “My parents are throwing something of a feast this weekend. There’s going to be dancing, drinking—”

“Naturally,” she quips, smiling, too.

Giving a laugh, he continues, “I want you to accompany me.”

The smile slips from her lips as her face goes slack. She disentangles her hands from his in favor of placing them on her hips.

Unease settles in Loki’s chest. He’d been convinced she felt the same way about him. Of course, there was a brief period of doubt because his brother is a  _ knave  _ and her sister is a  _ bitch,  _ but after Sigyn cleared everything up, his confidence had returned to him. Now, though, she’s probably wishing she could teleport away, and he’s not so sure.

“Listen,” she starts, and he braces himself. “I can’t.”

He doesn’t say anything, not certain of how he should respond. He tries not to look too doleful.

“You know how I got promoted to captain,” she asks, and he nods. “Well, that came with a unit transfer to the Queen’s Guard, and the feast is my first day.”

The Queen’s Guard is the royal guard unit for his mother. It’s comprised of a small group of dedicated, skilled men, consisting of around fifteen to twenty individuals. Each member is carefully considered and vetted. Being promoted to the Queen’s Guard is a most reputable honor, second to only promotion to the King’s Guard. Sigyn will be the only woman in history to receive the post. She’d be insane to jeopardize this opportunity for a date.

“I understand completely,” he graciously assures her. “Congratulations.” 

Face perking up from its preceding trepidation, she squeals again and jumps forward to envelop him in a tight hug, which he gladly returns. Her face presses into his chest, and his nose gets buried in her hair. She smells of lavender and metal.

Sigyn gives a final squeeze, gauntlet biting into his back a bit. She pulls away, smiling up at him. From over her shoulder, Loki notices that they’ve drawn the attention of a number of onlookers. He tugs lightly on her arm to lead her toward the terrace beyond the throne room. 

“You know,” he intones, grin a tad sly. “You will still be  _ at _ the feast.”

“Ah-ah,” she chides teasingly. She stops for a moment to poke him in the chest. “I will be working. Do _ not  _ bother me.”

He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “And who are you to order me around?”

She smirks, clasping her hands behind her back. “I am Captain Sigyn of the Queen’s Guard,” she proudly proclaims. 

They arrive at the low wall that surrounds the terrace, and Sigyn leans on its edge, looking out at the expanse of Asgard and the sea that lies below. She’d told him once that she loved the view from up here; that it’s even better than the one from the top of the garrison. He wants to give her this view forever.

His eyes crinkle fondly. “Yes, you are.”

* * *

Loki next sees Sigyn as he arrives at Frigga’s quarters to escort his mother to the feast. She’s standing behind the Queen and beside Commander Colborn, listening to hushed instructions from her superior. She nods at certain intervals, fingering the blue kerchief wrapped around her armored bicep with the same hand that clutches her golden spear. Her eyes lighten when they catch his from across the room, their dark brown hue sparkling brilliantly. Evidently determined not to be distracted, she stifles the smile that threatens to overtake her face and directs her attention back to her boss. Just as well, he supposes. She needs to keep her focus.

He tugs at the lapels of his emerald green dress robes as he approaches his mother, who’s dressed up, as well. Frigga wears her hair in an extravagant updo and dons a shimmering, floor-length, deep sky blue gown typical of a monarch. Loki greets her, complimenting her visage this evening. 

She sighs, shaking her head good-naturedly. “You and your silver-tongued flattery.”

“One can only imagine whence I get it,” he remarks. His mother hums, her lips twisted in a well-disposed smirk as she turns away to trade a few words with Colborn. Absent-minded, Loki lets his eyes slide to Sigyn, something he’s often wont to do. She’s already looking at him, which sends his heart stuttering in his chest.

A sly slant to her lips, she mouths, “Mama’s boy.”

Flustered despite himself, he flushes at her ribbing. When he twists his head away from her, he finds that his mother is looking at him, as well. Frigga’s smirk is broader now, having borne witness to his interaction with her most freshman guard. He looks down at his fingernails, embarrassed anew.

Before long, the small party of royals and soldiers is headed for the ballroom and adjoining feast hall on the ground floor of the palace. Frigga’s hand rests in the crook of Loki’s arm as the group glides along.

“So,” she discreetly murmurs from the side of her mouth just when Loki had thought he was out of the woods. “That’s the girl your brother told me about.”

_ By Buri,  _ he inwardly curses in the name of his great-grandfather.  _ I am never telling Thor anything ever again. _

“She’s very pretty,” his mother goes on when he makes no verbal response. “I can see why you like her.”

“Mother, please,” he whispers, urging her to desist in her inquiry. Borr forbid, Sigyn overhears them; she’s walking a mere two paces behind them.

Not one to be deterred, Frigga continues, “And she’s not wrong either. You are a mama’s boy.”

_ “Mother,”  _ he groans. They enter the ballroom, and he wipes the grimace from his face just before they’re announced. Thereafter, he separates himself from her as soon as possible.

He occupies himself with roasted fowl and fine mead during the feasting portion of the evening, but when the dancing and socializing starts, he finds himself with little to do. For some time, he rubs shoulders with a couple of his father’s advisors, but that soon grows tiresome. As far as he’s concerned, the venerable old men have grown out of touch. It would do everyone well for them to be replaced forthwith.

In the middle of the dance hall, Haldana and Aerick are twirling around. Spotting an opportunity to bully Haldana, Loki starts forward, determined to ruin her evening.

The young goddess wears a glimmering orange dress, her long golden hair cascading down her back. The jewels that hang from her ears and neck are light blue, matching her husband’s suit. When she spots him approaching from over Aerick’s shoulder, panic slips into her eyes.

He reaches their side, asking, “May I cut in?”

“No,” Haldana snaps, tightly gripping her husband’s shoulders.

Aerick laughs nervously, slightly crooked white teeth flashing in the lamplight. Ever since he and Haldana had become involved, he’s tiptoed around her friends. He’s a lord, yes, but not of the same degree. Growing up and beyond, he’d rarely been invited to their social gatherings. As such, he isn’t entirely comfortable with their group’s dynamic. Awkwardly, he steps back from his wife and gestures his approval to Loki. 

Moving to take Haldana’s hand and slip an arm around her waist before she can make a run for it, Loki delights in her discomfort. Their relationship hadn’t always been so poor, but it had never been great either. As children, they’d played together only when she’d tagged along with Sif and he with Thor. In young adulthood, most of his friends started to distance themselves from him, no longer enjoying his mischief as much as in years prior. Haldana in particular avoided him, which he chalked up to how much their parents wanted them to marry and how much she  _ didn’t _ want to marry him. After he’d met Sigyn, she’d loathed him all the more. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom her reasoning.

Well, maybe he can see a little of whence she’s coming.

They dance in silence for the length of a song. Haldana tries to pull away before the next one starts, but Loki holds fast. “You know,” he begins, leaning in to speak by her ear. “As the God of Lies, I’m not accustomed to people trying to  _ lie _ to me.”

Her teeth grind loud enough for him to hear. “I’m not sure I catch your meaning.”

He hums noncommittally from the back of his throat. “I think you do.”

Another bout of silence ensues, Haldana’s teeth grinding away. Finally, she speaks up, “It may do you well to heed my words when I  _ caution  _ you to stay away from Sigyn.”

Their feet don’t stop moving to the tune of the song. “Is that right?”

“She’s not for you,” she hisses into his ear before pulling away, manifestly having had enough with him. 

He’s about to retort when a piercing scream sounds through the room. Startled, the two nobles swivel on their feet, searching for the source of the commotion.

Fighting has broken out at the far end of the ballroom. Norval, a young noble that has always had some rather extreme views by Loki’s recollection, is trading blows with two soldiers. Two members of the Queen’s Guard, to be specific.

Alarm flares through Loki. Frozen in place, he watches from afar as Norval tears through the first of the guards. The man falls to the floor, blood gushing from his right side as he ceases in all movement. Without missing a beat, Norval moves on to his remaining opponent, who had been momentarily distracted by his comrade’s defeat.

The soldier deflects Norval’s attacks as best he can, but it soon becomes apparent that his efforts won’t be enough. A mere thirty seconds into their scuffle, the soldier’s blade is knocked from his grip. His body sways to one side from the force of Norval’s strike, and he narrowly avoids a hit to the back of his neck when someone else swoops in to parry Norval’s oncoming stab.

The Queen Frigga has stepped in, having summoned her trademark silver shortsword into her grasp. Loki is appalled by the turn of events, distress settling in the pit of his stomach. There’s no reason that she should be fighting in the place of the surviving members of her guard.

Fearless as ever, she darts forward, jabbing at Norval with the sharp edge of her weapon. He stumbles back, no doubt surprised that the queen has readily thrown herself into the fray. He counters her blows with the longsword that he shouldn’t have been able to sneak into the festivities. Loki surmises that Norval must have stowed it somewhere in the room prior to the feast.

Norval’s shock lingers for but a brief juncture of time before he is once again attacking at full force. He and Frigga go back and forth with their blades, one of them gaining ground only to lose it a moment later, and so on and so forth. Norval is as aggressive and reckless as he’s always been in battle, whereas Frigga fights more gracelessly than usual. Her movements remain quick and refined, but they’re not as nimble as is normal.

Loki can only fathom as to why for a short time before Norval is burying the golden sword in the queen’s chest, tearing a choked gasp out of every occupant of the hall.

At this, Loki finally finds himself able to move again. He steps forward, pulling a blade from thin air, but he stops afresh as pink light suddenly envelops his mother’s form, leaving Sigyn standing with a sword in her breast. From his right, another anguished breath slips from Haldana’s lips.

Norval’s face slackens in surprise, but it quickly returns to its former enraged state when Sigyn coughs blood into it. With a roar, he pushes his arm out to fling her from his weapon and turns his attention to the real queen, who’d been masquerading as Sigyn for who knows how long. Gradually, Sigyn slides off the blade, and Norval is too distracted to see her arm come up, much less anticipate her sword slicing through his throat.

Both bodies thump to the floor amidst absolute silence.


	9. Numbing Draught

Sigyn wakes up a full day after the feast.

Loki had been called away to an excruciatingly lengthy but clearly necessary meeting about security five hours ago. Thus, he’s pleasantly surprised in finding her awake upon returning to the hospital this evening. 

While she was unconscious, she’d been moved to an almost blaringly white recovery room in the eastern wing of the military hospital, which is ever so conveniently where her mother works. As such, Walentyna has made it her business to check up on her daughter as often as possible. 

“Sit up straight,” Walentyna snaps at Sigyn, who looks positively drained. Her normally lustrous hair hangs limply about her face, and there’s a distinct darkness under her eyes. She draws herself up with her arms, wincing a little as she straightens her back. 

“Give me a break,” she groans, voice weak and hoarse. Her hand hovers over the gauze-bound wound on her chest, visible beneath the cross-over shirt that sweeps down in a deep neckline. 

No one seems to have noticed him standing by the door, too fixated on the woman they’d all feared may never open her eyes again. Haldana resides on the left side of Sigyn’s bed, and her mother on the right. Her friends stand across from him by the window. The blond one—Quimby, if Loki remembers the brief description Sigyn gave him years ago correctly—chuckles at Sigyn’s disgruntled demeanor. 

Her mother gives her a light smack on the forehead. “Stop whining.” Sigyn grimaces as though Walentyna’s order is utterly ridiculous, but bites her tongue all the same.

Haldana holds up a glass to her sister, a concerned crease to her brow. “Would you like some water?”

Sigyn glares at the ceiling, refusing to look at Haldana. “Would  _ you _ like to choke on a fetid cock?”

“Sigyn,” Walentyna exclaims, appalled at her daughter’s vulgarity. Meanwhile, the men in the room have all raised their brows in amusement, Loki in mild shock. Usually, Sigyn is not one to make such boorish statements. Not around him, at least. She must be especially rattled after the events of the feast.

Sigyn holds up her hands. “She started it.” Walentyna rolls her eyes, and Loki imagines she often hears that excuse.

Haldana crosses her arms, scowling. “I cannot believe you are still mad.”

“Well, I  _ was _ coming around,” Sigyn snarks, eyes turning to her regard her sister at last. “But as my life flashed before my eyes, I was reminded of your betrayal!” At the end of her diatribe, her voice is cut off in a bloody, hacking cough. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth and wipe the blood from her chin. 

Smiling cheekily, Haldana offers her the water once more, and she reluctantly takes it. As she downs a tentative sip, her tired, dark-eyed gaze floats across the room, latching onto his figure. Loki straightens imperceptibly as she gives him a small wave, smiling back at her.

Nose scrunched up in confusion, Quimby asks Sigyn, “What are you waving at? Did you hit your head when you—Oh, shit!” He jumps about a foot in the air when his eyes land on Loki, drawing everyone else’s attention to him, as well. Hand to his chest, Quimby explains his over-the-top reaction, “He did that creepy chameleon thing Sigyn does.”

“It’s not a ‘creepy chameleon thing,’” she contends, tongue peeking out to catch a drop of water clinging to the edge of her mouth. Unbidden, Loki’s eyes follow the movement. “It’s a glamour that makes it difficult for those in the surrounding area to focus on you.”

Quimby shrugs. “I don’t see how that differs from what I said.”

Irked, Sigyn opens her mouth to retort, but her mother heads her off. “I am going back to work.” Walentyna wags a commanding finger at her. “Do  _ not  _ let anyone rile you up.”

Sigyn sighs in acquiescence. “Yes, Mother.”

Pleased with her compliance, Walentyna kisses her on the cheek and heads out. Loki moves away from the door to let her pass, but he doesn’t miss the glare she shoots him as she exits the room.

_ What was that about,  _ he wonders.

Haldana stands from her sister’s bedside. “I suppose I should be on my way, as well.”

Sigyn sends her a look of mock astonishment. “Look at that! That’s the first good idea you’ve had all day.”

Haldana scowls in dismay, but holds her tongue. As she makes her way past Loki, she glares at him, too.  _ I certainly know why  _ she’s  _ glaring at me. _

The door closes behind the goddess, and Loki makes for Sigyn. “How are you feeling?”

He hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night, especially considering he’d spent most of it sitting in a narrow hallway outside of an emergency operating room. Thereafter, he’d been kept up with the worry that even after her surgery and all that Manning, her primary healer, had done, she’d still die, and he would never look into her eyes or speak to her again.

_ Never kiss her,  _ his mind supplies, reminding him of his earlier self-torment.

She waves a flippant hand, completely oblivious to his depressing inner monologue. “I’m alright. Manning said I should be back at work in under a month.”

“That’s good to hear,” Loki replies, trying his best to put on a comforting smile. “You seem to be in good spirits.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, shrugging. “So the guy stabbed me. So what? Honestly, I’m just glad he missed my tit.” Loki’s eyebrows shoot up at her statement, his mouth pursed in bemusement. 

Quimby shakes his head, chuckling once more at her antics. “The healers gave her a fairly powerful numbing draught,” he explains. 

Turning back to Sigyn, Loki remarks, “It’s quite loosened your tongue.”

“I suppose.” She shrugs again, a sly grin finding its way to her lips. “Usually, I only get like this after a good licking.” Debauched expression still in place, she throws Loki a wink.

At a complete loss for words, Loki’s eyes slides back to Sigyn’s friends as his cheeks flush. Quimby’s laugh has grown into a full-blown cackle, his head thrown back and shoulders shaking with the force of it. Next to him, her other friend, Pontus, wears a scowl. Face still hot, Loki wonders what his problem is.

“What,” Sigyn asks. For a moment, Loki thinks she’s talking to him, but her eyes are trained on someone at the room’s entrance. In the doorway stands a vaguely familiar, nervous light-skinned man of average height. “Come here to gloat, have you?”

The man fidgets with the fringe of his tunic. “No. On the contrary, I am here to apologize.” Taking a deep breath through his nose, he crosses his arms. “And to thank you.”

Sigyn’s brow furrows. “Co— _ Hah.” _ Her voice languishes in the midst of her leaning forward. Eyes clenched shut, she lets out a shaky breath and returns to her earlier position with her back just short of the bed’s pillows. She opens her eyes and tries anew, “Come again?”

He steps into the room. “It was wrong of me to say that you wouldn’t last long on the Guard.” The man pauses, exhaling slowly. “You—”

“Are you referring to when you said, ‘You will soon realize you are running out of time to have babies and resign in disgrace,’” she interrupts, forehead still crinkled in consternation. Her voice is hard and unwavering, but her tone is not entirely unforgiving.

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki sees Quimby and Pontus glaring at Sigyn’s colleague and joins them in the enterprise. If not two days ago this man—who Loki now recognizes as Captain Kustaa from his mother’s guard—had been so opposed to Sigyn joining his unit, why was he changing his tune now?

Cringing, Kustaa scratches the back of his head. “Yes, that. I am really sorry about that.”

Sigyn gives a short, disbelieving hum, her eyes narrowed into slits. Loki completely expects her to ask Kustaa if  _ he  _ would like to choke on a fetid cock and shoo him from the room, but then her expression lightens, and she says, “Alright. You’re forgiven.”

“Really? Just like that,” Kustaa squeaks, and Loki internally echoes his question.

Making a dismissive gesture, Sigyn says, “Eh. I figure you simply realized how amazing I was when I saved your life.”

He scoffs. “You didn’t save my life.”

_ “Please,”  _ she scorns, rolling her eyes. “If I hadn’t stepped in when I did,  _ you  _ would be the one in a hospital bed.” Kustaa shrugs half-heartedly, unable to deny her claim. “Speaking of people in hospital beds,” she goes on, “how is Captain Teppo?” Loki recalls that Teppo was the first of the Queen’s men to go down in the fight against Norval.

A sigh of relief escapes Kustaa as he is no doubt pleased that the attention is off him. “He’s going to make a full recovery.” He takes half a step through the doorway, indicating his departure. “He’s right down the hall from you. I’ll tell him you said, ‘hello.’”

Sigyn brings up a hand, a playful smile in her lips. “Hold on, now. You’ve apologized, but you said you wanted to thank me, as well. Whatever for?”

Halting in his retreat, Kustaa holds the door frame. “Oh, right, ah, I wanted to thank you for taking out the Lord Norval. It was your first night. You shouldn’t have had to intervene.”

Face contorting in confusion, Sigyn asks, “What do you mean, I took him out? He stabbed me and I passed out.”

“Er, no,” Loki contends, surprised that she doesn’t remember how last night’s altercation concluded. “As you were going down, you raised your arm and . . .” He trails off at the sight of her friends frantically gesturing that he stop speaking. “What?”

“What,” Sigyn echoes, head swiveling around to Pontus and Quimby, both of whom look perfectly suspect. “What are they on about,” she emphasizes, voice unyielding.

After a moment of hesitation, Quimby pipes up. “Okay, it’s, um—”

“Don’t do it,” Pontus interrupts.

“I must! It’s time,” Quimby retorts, visibly distressed. Pontus shakes his head, but holds up his hands in acquiescence.

Sigyn watches the entire encounter, looking more and more anxious by the second. “Quimby,” she urges.

He gives a deep sigh. “You killed the Lord Norval last night.”

_ “What,” _ she shrieks, and the half-empty glass on the table beside her bed explodes into a thousand pieces.

Before the shards can strike anyone or anything in the room, Loki holds up a hand and wills the glass fragments to freeze mid-air. One of them stops directly beneath Sigyn’s jaw, its sharp edge dangerously close to the brown skin of her throat. Carefully, he directs the pieces into the receptacle by the door. In doing so, he notices that sometime during the commotion, Kustaa had managed to slip out of the room unnoticed.

Breathing fast and hard through her nose, Sigyn asks, “What the Hel just happened?”

“Your distress translated into a violent telekinetic reaction,” Loki explains, a grounding hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he assures her.

She takes a deep breath before speaking. “I—Sorry, I—” 

“It’s okay,” he calmly repeats. Sigyn cups her hands around her mouth as her breath starts coming in shorter and shorter. “Are you alright?” 

She nods quickly, giving no verbal response. Once her breathing finally calms down, she moves one hand to tug on a wisp of hair hanging behind her ears as she twists her lips in displeasure.

Pontus pipes up. “She’s never killed anyone.” He pauses. “Correction: she  _ hadn’t  _ killed anyone.” He pauses again. “You know, until now.”

“I think he gets it,” Sigyn snaps, glaring rather viciously at him.

He raises his arms in surrender. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“I’ll shoot you whenever I like,” she returns, shaking slightly. She leans back, settling herself against the pillows, but quickly sits up again, hissing in pain. Her voice comes out in a sob, “Fuck.”

In an effort to comfort Sigyn, Pontus and Loki both step forward. Pontus awkwardly pats her on the head while Loki makes another attempt at consolation. “Don’t worry too much about all this.” He gives an inelegant shrug. “I mean, I kill people all the time.”

At this, Sigyn freezes up and ceases worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Her eyes flick to the side, scanning him. “You do, don’t you,” she says softly as Pontus starts stroking her hair after each pat.

Sensing that all the judgment—and all the eyes—in the room is suddenly fixed on him, he retreats as quickly as possible. “Or maybe, you know, don’t—I—My father told me he wanted a word with me this evening, so I’ll be going.” His excuse isn’t technically a lie. Odin had asked Loki to stop by his rooms after he returned from visiting Sigyn.

As he nears the door, Sigyn mumbles, “Okay, bye,” tone oddly hollow. He nods in farewell, and once he’s in the threshold of the door, he hears her tell Pontus, “Stop petting my hair.”

“It’s so greasy,” Pontus says, his voice a mere whisper in the hall.

Half an hour later, Loki strides into his father’s sitting room. He gives Odin a quick bow before sliding into the chair across from him. “Father,” he greets. “There’s something you wished to share with me?” Throughout the day, he’d spared little thought to what the upcoming conversation might concern, but he’d been significantly preoccupied by Sigyn’s predicament. Fleetingly, he supposed it would be about last night’s attack or the ramifications of the event.

Odin nods, his signature half-frown set on his face. “Yes. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something of great importance.” Loki nods, and his father continues, “It is a shame the match between you and the Lady Haldana did not pan out.”

Loki’s brow furrows at the abrupt and peculiar choice in topic. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is it,” he ponders aloud.

“It is,” Odin affirms. He crosses his hands in his lap. “You are a prince. It is important that you find a worthy woman with whom to spend your life. Your mother and I, along with the Lord Andor and Lady Magnhildr, had thought the two of you would make a favorable pair.”

Trying his damndest not to roll his eyes, Loki gives his father a tight smile. “Alas, it was not to be.” He hesitates before continuing, “However, seeing as you find Haldana so appealing, there is someone very similar to her—”

“Are you referring to her bastard, flannfluga sister,” Odin interjects, his disapproval evident.

At his father’s choice of words, Loki suppresses an uneasy flinch. “I-I wouldn’t—”

“Nor would I,” Odin agrees, purposefully misunderstanding Loki. He stands, stepping around his chair and coming to stand beside Loki’s. He places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Don’t waste your time, my boy. She’s not for you.”


	10. Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter until the end of part one! Please read, comment and enjoy!

Early the second morning after the attack, Walentyna is checking up on Sigyn once more. She measures her blood pressure, takes her temperature, and re-dresses her wounds. Part of Sigyn feels bad having her mother worried and fretting over her, but at the same time, she can’t help but bask in the attention. 

“Now, remember,” Walentyna lectures, pointing a wooden tongue-depressor at her, “plenty of fluids and as little excitement as possible.”

Sighing, she agrees, “Yes, Mother.”

Her mother holds her serious expression for another second before letting it drop. She bends down, grasping Sigyn’s cheeks and squishing them together. Showering little kisses all over her cheeks and nose, Walentyna whispers, “I love you, darling. Everything will be alright. You are safe.”

Sigyn scrunches up her face, embarrassed despite their lack of company. “I know, Mother.”

Truthfully, Sigyn wasn’t scared by the events of the feast. Certainly, in the moment, she’d had fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins, giving her the courage she needed to keep moving. By the time she’d been in any real danger, i.e. with a sword between her tits and thankfully, her lungs—for the most part—she’d had too much blood loss and had passed out. Once she’d woken up, she’d been in the clear. She hadn’t felt very much fear that she might die, but those close to her clearly had.

“I know you know,” her mother concedes, straightening up again. “Although, maybe you could consider a change in career—something a little less dangerous? You’re still young. You could be anything you want.”

“I think you know what I want,” she says, gentle but unapologetic in her conviction. 

“Yes,” Walentyna sighs, lips twisting in displeasure. “Speaking of things you want, there is a matter I wish to discuss. The Prince Loki—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sigyn interrupts, cheeks aflame with her hands held up in front of her. “What makes you think I want him? I-I don’t—I never said—I—”

Walentyna holds up a hand, effectively stopping the outpour of rambling. “That’s enough denial, dear. You can’t put all your hopes into this boy. He is not a sure thing. Not for you. You are from two entirely different worlds.”

Sigyn shakes her head, totally  _ not  _ in denial. “I don’t know what you mean by that. It’s not like he’s from Jotunheim or something—”

“Sigyn,” Walentyna interjects, trying to reign in the rambling once more.

Groaning, she acquiesces. “Okay, okay, I know, but I feel like we really have something. I mean, I l-like him, and I just  _ know  _ he feels the same way.”

“And if that feeling goes away,” Walentyna asks, shaking her head. “Or if he is not  _ permitted  _ to feel that way?”

Sigyn’s patience runs short, and she snaps, “Stop comparing my relationship to what you had with Andor.”

Jaw clenched, Walentyna’s gaze drops for a moment. It’s once in a blue moon that either of the two women speak of Sigyn’s estranged father, the subject causing too much pain for them both. In recent years, however, Sigyn has found the topic less and less excruciating to discuss. She no longer feels the deep-seated abandonment that she had when she was younger as she’s realized that he had never been there for her in the first place. Besides, he’s a horrible man—not exactly what she’d want in a father or anyone else in her life.

Her mother feels differently though, and she knows that. “Mother,” she pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have a relationship,” Walentyna murmurs. Her eyes lift back up to meet Sigyn’s. “That boy can have whatever he wants, but if you give up something for him, you’ll never get it back.”

* * *

_ Sigyn could hear Haldana’s steps thundering after her as she fled the scene. She picked up her pace, lengthening the distance between her sister and herself. She ran until her lungs were burning and she’d left behind the castle’s shadow. Stopping outside of a garment shoppe, she awaited Haldana’s arrival.  _

_ It took Haldana two minutes to catch up and she almost passed the alley in which Sigyn resided. She slowed to a stop, taking a few steps back to meet Sigyn, who kept her arms crossed and her face carefully blank. Heaving a half-sigh-half-gasp-for-breath, Haldana ventured, “Listen, Sigyn, I kn—” _

_ “What the fuck was that,” Sigyn shouted, breaking after a full nine seconds.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” Haldana fired back, eyebrows drawn together and hands spread in desperation. “You don’t understand—” _

_ Pointing her finger, Sigyn grit her teeth and spoke over Haldana’s sordid apology, “No,  _ you  _ don’t understand. I trusted you with a very important secret, and you just blurted it out to the heir to the fucking kingdom!” _

_ “Look, Thor isn’t like Odin. He won’t—” _

_ “That doesn’t matter,” she yelled, slicing her arm through the air as a signal for her sister to shut the fuck  _ up.  _ “Now, he knows. As does his brother, who I was planning on telling in my own damn time! If this gets out, it would ruin my reputation and my career!” She stepped forward, lowering her voice. “But more than all that, you have betrayed my trust.” _

_ Haldana ducked her head in shame, clenching her fist at her side. “I didn’t just blurt it out for no reason—” _

_ “What was the reason then,” Sigyn barked, her voice having returned to its previous volume. _

_ “Would you stop interrupting me,” Haldana shrieked. Sigyn shrugged, gesturing for her to continue. “I do not trust Loki, especially not with you.” _

_ Sigyn snorted in derision. “This shit again.” _

_ “I’m serious,” her sister insisted. “For Buri’s sake, he’s the God of Mischief and Lies. He has a different devious plot every week! You will only get hurt in the end.” _

_ Sigyn shook her head, biting back a sardonic smile. “I’m a big girl. Now, why don’t you mind your own business and let your older and much wiser sister handle herself.” With that, she stalked away, intent on going home before she did something stupid like talk Pontus into taking her out for drink in the middle of the day. _

_ “You’re only eight-six years older than me,” Haldana shouted after her, her voice sounding farther and farther away with every passing second. “And I’m still really, really sorry!” _

A knock sounds at the door, bringing Sigyn out of her reverie. She looks up to find her boss standing in the doorway. “Commander,” she greets, smiling. “How nice of you to stop by. Please come in.”

Colborn steps into the room, making his way to a seat under the window on the far side of the room. He’s dressed in civilian wear, including leather shoes and a brown cap atop his head. “I’m happy to see you’re faring well. During the attack, I had feared I would lose Teppo, Kustaa, and you.”

She shrugs benignly, albeit somewhat awkwardly. “Well, we survived.”

“Yes,” he agrees, grimacing.

Colborn averts his gaze thereafter, and a twinge of unease burrows into the back of Sigyn’s mind. Is it possible that after everything that happened at the feast, she’s still in trouble for some reason? “Is there something the matter, Commander?”

Bringing a hand up to cover his frown, he meets her eyes once more. “There is a rumor that has spread across Asgard I wish to authenticate with you.”

The twinge grows into a full-blown forest fire of worry, but Sigyn maintains a neutral, interested-but-not-too-interested façade. “Of course.”

He takes a moment before softly whispering, “You’re queer.” It’s not a question.

They maintain eye contact for several long seconds, throughout which Sigyn’s inner monologue chants:  _ “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—” _

She hadn’t been foolish enough to believe the matter would never come up again after Haldana’s  _ stupid  _ fucking admission on Sigyn’s part  _ without her fucking permission.  _ Nonetheless, after she’d spoken with Loki and it had turned out to be a non-issue, she’d sort of forgotten about it. Nothing else concerning her sexuality had come up, and immediately afterward, a  _ lot  _ of other stuff had happened.

Chest hurting for a whole new reason, she’s just as quiet in her response. “Yes.”

Colborn slouches forward in his chair, rubbing his hands down his face in frustration. “I have been advised by peers and superiors alike to dismiss you from service and have you returned to your previous unit.”

Face falling into a severe frown, Sigyn feels her eyelids grow heavy. She tries desperately to keep her breathing even so as to not collapse into sobs. She’s the first woman ever appointed to the Queen’s Guard, and her tenure is over already. What a disgrace. “I understand.”

“However, I am choosing to discount their counsel.” Sigyn’s head snaps up in shock. He continues, “I do not believe people should lose their jobs as a result of their sexual orientations.”

She shakes her head, completely dumbfounded, yet pleased.  _ Extremely  _ pleased. “I—Thank you, Commander. Truly, you don’t know what this—”

Holding up a hand, he halts her speech. “You’ll never be promoted, you know. If you live out. This is as far as you’ll go, and I can’t promise that even I can always keep you from losing  _ this  _ job.”

Nodding solemnly, she assures him, “I realize that.”

“Then why do it?” Colborn’s voice booms in the small room. He’s visibly distressed, almost twitching in anger. Sigyn wonders why that is. He’s barely known her for two weeks—they’ve hardly built even a professional relationship. “Why live this way?”

“It’s not a choice,” she gently informs him. He’d seemed well-informed earlier in the conversation when he’d used the term “sexual orientation” rather than ‘preference,’ but apparently he is not so. Nonetheless, she tries to be polite. After all, he’s letting her keep her job.

“No.” He frowns. “I mean, why be out? Why not say it’s a rumor—”

“I hardly think I could accuse the Prince Thor of lying or spreading misinformation, especially when he was not incorrect—”

He interrupts her in turn, “You could just . . .” He trails off, grasping at nothing—both figuratively and literally.

Sigyn leans forward, trying not to jostle herself too much. “I never thought I would make it to the end of my life without being out.” Shrugging, she adds, “And I was right. What’s done is done. Why pretend otherwise?”

Giving a bemused snort, Colborn gestures as though to imply that he’s at a loss. “You’re crazy.” He stands. “But I wish you the best of luck.”

Smiling and nodding, she tries once more to not be too offended as he makes for the door.

Upon reaching the doorway, Colborn stops and turns back. “Once you recover, you should come over to my house for supper and meet my partner, Alva. They’re always bemoaning our lack of guests.” With that, he departs, leaving Sigyn to drop her jaw in shock.

_ That sly bastard,  _ she thinks, mouth still agape.  _ No wonder he didn’t fire me. _

* * *

The other eight women in the armed forces—that’s right, there’s only nine of them in total—decide to visit Sigyn as a group two hours later. They’re a comforting if somewhat infuriating presence.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Dagny, a pale dark-haired woman, declares. “But you look simply terrible. You should have just died.”

Upper lip curled, Sigyn gives a fake laugh. “Hilarious.” Dagny, with her harsh words and jealous streak, has never been fond of Sigyn. It figures she’d only come by to tease her.

“I’m serious,” Dagny goes on, a tinkling lilt to her voice. “You’re all gaunt and tired-looking. And your hair— _ ugh.” _

“I think she looks lovely,” chimes in a familiar voice.

Eight out of the nine pairs of eyes in the room snap to the doorway to see Loki standing with a bouquet of pink campions clutched in one hand.

_ My favorite flower,  _ Sigyn thinks, her face hopefully not taking on too much of a dreamy expression.

Dagny, the only woman not facing him, opens her mouth without much thought as she turns around. “Well, you would be wro—” Her voice dies in her throat as her wide eyes land on him. Swiftly spinning on the balls of her feet, she whispers to Sigyn, “Help me.”

“Oh, I would, but—” Sigyn exhales in a dramatic sham of a yawn, even going so far as to stretch her arms over her head despite the slight twinge of pain it cause. “—I am ever so tired-looking.” A few chuckles sound throughout the small room, to which Dagny responds by turning and bolting through the door, metal greaves clacking together as she darts down the hall.

Lieutenant Ylva, an older woman with scraggly gray hair in the far corner of the room, clicks her tongue, muttering, “Coward.” She’s met with an array of grumbled responses. 

“Shut up, Ylva,” Corporal Hillevi, a blonde muscular woman, commands, arms crossed over her armored chest.

Ase, the red-haired woman closest to Loki, gripes, “Borr damn it—”

A short brunette, Sergeant Tyra, scrunches her nose in distaste. “Nobody cares—”

“—old bitch,” Sigyn concludes, glaring at Ylva from the comfort of her pillows.

It’s a shame that Ylva is such an unpleasant person. She was the first woman to make it to the rank of lieutenant since the Valkyries. Once upon a time, Sigyn had looked up to her, but her admiration had been quickly washed away the day she and Ylva had met. She had expressed a desire to follow in Ylva’s footsteps, and without any remorse, Ylva had dismissed her as some foolhardy girl. Ironically, Ylva has in no way congratulated Sigyn on her promotion to captain, which just so happens to be a rank above lieutenant.

Ylva shakes her head before settling her gaze on Loki, her eyes sparkling with malicious intent. “Apologies, Your Highness. Young women have no sense of decorum these days.” Loki’s mouth opens and closes, clearly at loss for how to respond. Fortunately, he’s not left on the spot for long as various women jump in again to hound her.

“Shut  _ up,  _ Ylva,” Hillevi repeats.

“For Borr’s _ sake—” _

_ “Nobody  _ cares—”

Arm swept toward the open door, Sigyn shouts, “Get out!”

Her mischievous smile not diminished in the least, Ylva makes her way from the room, much to the pleasure of her colleagues.

Time stands still for a moment as a hush falls over the room. Finally, Loki breaks the silence. Taking half a step back, he announces, “I’ll give you ladies a minute.”

At his words, all of the women remaining—save for the youngest, Tove, who’s standing on Sigyn’s right—wince. It’s not uncommon for the rest of the military to refer to the Association of Female Armed Services Members and Veterans, a labor rights group Sigyn had organized roughly three-hundred years ago, as the “Ladies Lunch Club.” Quickly, Loki opens his mouth to remedy the situation—no doubt having remembered this information, which she had shared with him some time ago—but keeps his silence as he notices her discreetly waving of his concerns, having been able to follow his line of thought. 

Once he’s back in the hall, the women resume their conversation. “Well, would you look at that,” Tyra taunts. “The prince brought you flowers.”

There’s a chorus of  _ oohs _ from around the room.

“So, it’s true, then,” Borghildr chimes in. “You’re fucking?”

Before Sigyn can respond, Ase pipes up, “Um, he can still hear us.”

Sigyn gives an embarrassed squeak and makes a frantic gesture. “Ase, close the door! Borghildr,  _ shut the Hel up!” _

Ase, sending a sweet smile out the door, takes a short step to grasp the knob and close the door. 

Sigyn’s head swivels back in Borghildr’s direction, “Bitch, what the fuck?”

Smiling, Borghildr raises her hands in mock defense. “Hey, that’s just what people have been saying.”

Mumbling under her breath, Olga, a shapely dark-skinned woman, adds, “They’ve been saying some other shit, too.”

“One of the rumors must be true.” Hillevi smiles, shooting Sigyn a knowing look.  

Approximately eight-hundred years ago, Sigyn had caught Hillevi and Olga making out in the women’s locker room at work. In an effort to calm the two women who had immediately began begging her not to tell anyone, she had come out to them. Even today, they scarcely spoke of that afternoon.

Tove, who may have a little hero-worship for Sigyn, is quick to rebut the older woman, almost sneering in her vehemence. “No.”

“Yes,” Sigyn sighs, seeing fit to end the debate here. The pain in her chest acutely intensifies for the second time today. “I am queer.”

The women respond in various different ways. Tove and Ase gasp, perhaps in outrage or simply shock. Olga gives Sigyn a  _ have-you-gone-mad  _ glare. Tyra leaves without sparing anyone a second glance.

Wryly, Hillevi mutters, “Well, that’s three down.”

Feeling a sudden hand on her shoulder, Sigyn looks up to find Tove staring down at her with admiration shining in her eyes. “You are so brave.”

“Shut up, Tove,” Olga shouts, waving her hand dismissively. “You,” she continues, pointing at Sigyn. “You are a stupid bitch. They are going to kill you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sigyn fires back, however half-heartedly. She’ll never admit that Olga has echoed one of her own deepest fears. “No fuðflogi or flannfluga has been killed in nearly five-hundred years.”

Olga takes a brash step forward, yelling, “And who the fuck has come out since then?”

Eyes prickling in both panic and anger, Sigyn opens her mouth to retort, but Ase speaks first. “Olga,” she says, glancing between her and Sigyn. “Are  _ you  _ a flannfluga?”

“I should hardly think so,” Hillevi comments, her voice composed but dismal. “Olga has been married for over three-hundred years, after all.” Coolly, Olga locks eyes with her from across the room. At the end of whatever silent conversation that transpires behind them, Hillevi turns and stalks from the room.

“Four down,” Sigyn remarks quietly to herself. 

Olga makes a clicking sound with her tongue, glaring at Sigyn once more. “Fuck this,” she spits, and then she’s gone, too. 

Sigyn glares after her, absolutely furious at her for her reaction. One would think that she would be supportive considering how long they’ve known one another. Yet there are always those who fear progress and the repercussions with which it comes.

Not Sigyn, though.  _ Nope, no way. Not scared at all. _

Tove draws back her attention. “Is everyone always like this,” she asks, sheepish. 

“Basically,” Sigyn replies. The nine of them may be the only women in the army, but that doesn’t mean they have to be best buddies. Truthfully, she’s only friends with Ase, Hillevi, Olga, Tove and Tyra.  _ Well, maybe not Tyra anymore,  _ Sigyn considers. _ Or Olga for a little while.  _ “So,” Sigyn starts, trying to cheer up Tove. “How is the old squadron treating you?”

Tove had finished basic training and been placed in Sigyn’s previous division three weeks ago, as the youngest woman to ever join the military at two-hundred seventy-seven years old. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been in Sigyn’s platoon, so they’d only spoken a handful of times, most of which Tove spent asking Sigyn about her own experience in the military and her veterans association . 

Tove shrugs. “It’s been . . . good. Everyone, uh, seems to like me.” She scratches the side of her head, looking as though she’s contemplating her next words. “They, um, call me ‘New Sigyn.’”

Shaking her head, Sigyn rolls her eyes disapprovingly. “Of course, they do.” She pats Tove’s shoulder. “Nevertheless, don’t let them push you around.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll do anything like that,” Tove chirps, perking up a bit. “Lieutenant Arvid has me stationed in the throne room this week. Everyone says it’s the best post in the realm.”

Ase makes a sad cooing noise. “It’s actually the worst, sweetheart.”

Disbelieving, Tove looks to Sigyn for confirmation. She nods, apologetic. “Look on the bright side, I’ll be in there all the time once I’m not in here anymore.”

“Come along, dear,” Ase says, throwing her arm around Tove and guiding her towards the door. “I’ll buy you a treat.”

“I am not a child,” Tove tells her, obstinate.

“Oh.” Ase throws Sigyn a good-bye wave on their way out. “I hadn’t realize you’d spontaneously aged twenty-three years and gotten to your fourth century.”

Sigyn drops her head back once the door clicks shut, the back of her skull thumping gently onto the top of her pillows. “And then there was one.”

Eyes trained on the ceiling, her thoughts roam. She thinks about the pain in her chest. The pain in her back. How tired her bones feel. How tired her eyes feel. How over her life feels. It may be sort of possible that coming out to the entire world could be a bad idea.  _ Had  _ been a bad idea, seeing as how she’d already committed to it. Not that it’d been her idea or anything.  _ Stupid Haldana and her big mouth.  _ With a little hesitation, she adds,  _ Stupid Prince Thor and his  _ loud  _ mouth. _

Feeling her eyes begin to prickle, she bites her lip to hold in her feelings. She does not want to cry. She did enough of that yesterday, and over  _ Norval,  _ that stupid son of a—

“Sounded as though that was a fun visit,” Loki remarks, having let himself in while Sigyn was stewing in her own misery.

She laughs haltingly as he comes to sit beside her. “I think I’m just a little upset . . .” she pauses, swallowing roughly around a lump in her throat as she thinks of an excuse, “because of the drugs.”

He attempts a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. “Or could it be because someone tried to kill you and you’ve been outed to the entire kingdom?”

Shaking her head, she’s on the verge of denying his claim when her face crumples, and she bursts into tears instead. She allows her erratic emotions to finally wash over her, her agony only increasing as the heaving of her chest irritates her wounds. She opens her eyes again when she feels Loki stroking the back of her hand in comfort. “I’m sorry,” she gasps.

Loki’s brow furrows, “What for?”

“For the panic attack. After I—” Her voice cuts off as her mouth suddenly dries. “After I found out about what I did to Norval.”

Placing his hands over one of hers, he insists, “There is no need for any apology, Sigyn, please. You were justifiably upset.”

“Still,” she maintains, watery eyes cast down while her free hand picks at an imaginary thread on her sheets. “I can only imagine how people must think of me now.”

Loki barks out a surprised laugh. Affronted, Sigyn lifts her gaze to meet his. He’s quick to squeeze her hand in reassurance. “Surely, you jest. You, a  _ soldier, _ managed to last a millennium before taking a life _.  _ To speak nothing of your moral will, the sheer skill that requires is beyond words. Furthermore, when the need finally arises, you have a sword in your chest and you’ve blacked out?”

Lips quirking upward, Sigyn squeezes one of his hands back. “You flatter me.”

“Rightfully so,” he agrees.

Looking past him, her gaze settles on the campions he’d set up in a vase on the table beside her bed, likely while she was wailing. “Thank you for the flowers.” She smiles at him. “They’re my favorites.”

He returns her soft smile. “I know.” Sigyn looks back to the flowers, admiring their bright, pink-purplish coloring. Frankly, she’s surprised he remembered her favorite flower. She doesn’t even recall telling him herself.

Loki’s hand come to rest gently over the curve of her neck, and she flinches at the sudden touch. “Did the glass get you yesterday,” he asks, brow drawn in concern.

Eyes widening in shock, Sigyn throws her hand up to cover the scar upon which Loki has become fixated. It had completely slipped her mind that she didn’t have the strength to cover it with an illusion. “No, um,” she scrambles for a believable explanation. “It’s just an old scar.”

His mouth twitches, conveying discomfort. “How did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” her mind immediately supplies, having realized she’d never think of anything better. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

The latter is true. Ever since she was little, she’s had this long, ugly scar running across the middle of her neck, right over her throat. When she was old enough, she’d started covering it with make-up, but once she’d gotten the hang of illusionary magic, she’d simply relied on that. Little good it did her now, of course.

“Can I see it again,” he requests, gesturing to his own neck with a crooked finger. 

Reluctantly, she lowers her hand to her lap, watching as he studies it once more.

He leans forward in his chair. “It’s so long—”

“Uh,” Quimby’s voice suddenly sounds from the hall, his head peeking through the doorway. “Are we interrupting something?”

Loudly, Sigyn says, “No,” grateful for the interruption. She and Loki edge away from each other unconsciously.

Unbothered, Quimby enters the room, going to the same chair he’d occupied the previous day. Sigyn expects Pontus to be the other half of the “we” Quimby had mentioned, but it’s a woman with light green eyes, a willowy figure and cropped, golden hair who joins them today. 

“Elshe,” Sigyn exclaims, her mood changing instantaneously.

Elshe skips over, enveloping Sigyn in a gentle shoulder-hug. She pulls back to run her eyes over Sigyn’s face. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Elshe, really,” she assures her. 

Nodding slightly, Elshe looks as though her concerns have been assuaged until she too notices the scar on Sigyn’s throat. “Quimby didn’t tell me the Lord Norval got your neck.”

_ Oh, come on, _ Sigyn internally gripes.  _ Again with the neck? Seriously? _

Quimby is quick to insert himself, pulling Elshe back and whispering to her, “No, that’s from something else. Leave it be.”

“But never have I—”

_ “Leave  _ it, woman,” he repeats firmly, though his expression turns apologetic when Elshe raises her eyebrows in vexation.

“Anyway,” Sigyn intones, turning back to Loki, who  _ no,  _ she hadn’t forgot was in the room with them. “Your Highness, this is Elshe, Quimby’s fiancée. She is a chef at a lovely café on the waterfront.” Elshe stands once more to shake Loki’s hand, and Sigyn continues, “Elshe, this is the Prince Loki, of whom I am sure you know.”

“An honor,” Elshe greets, visibly bewildered at the way Loki cups her hand the way fancy people do. That’d taken Sigyn a while to get used to, as well.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he returns. He addresses Quimby next, “I didn’t know you were getting married.”

Having clearly not expected Loki to directly converse with him, Quimby flounders for a moment. “Ah, I—Yes. Our wedding will be in the coming spring. I’m surprised Sigyn didn’t tell you.” He turns to her. “You don’t talk about us?”

She makes a nonchalant gesture. “I believe it rude to talk about one’s other friends. It’s almost like gossip.” She turns to Loki for support. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Loki shrugs. “I don’t exactly have ‘other friends.’”

Sigyn lets loose a series of airy giggles, lightly smacking his arm. “You are so silly.”

Quimby shoots a discreet, amused look at Elshe, who rolls her eyes and drops a coin into his hand. 

This prompts Sigyn to give Quimby an incredulous, slightly outraged glare. How  _ dare  _ he make bets on her love life. Not that she’s in love with Loki, of course. 

Quimby smiles unabashedly by way of reply.

Loki ends the break in verbal conversation the three of them have created. “I for one am loving these painfully obvious, silent exchanges you all are having.”

Sigyn doesn’t think as she responds, “Sorry, love.” A tense stillness falls over the room, and she’s just as shocked as she finally realizes what just came out of her mouth. “Loki! Prince Loki,” she amends rather frantically, avoiding eye contact with everyone so as to not humiliate herself further.

She’s spared when her mother enters the room. “Everyone out,” Walentyna orders, unrepentant. “I need to change Sigyn’s bandages.”

“Bye, Sig’,” Quimby says in farewell, his hand resting on Elshe’s lower back on their way out.

When she sees Loki wave at her in good-bye in her periphery, she tries not to think about how hot her cheeks are and returns the wave without meeting his gaze again. 

Walentyna waits until they’ve all filed out before speaking again. “You’re embarrassing yourself,  _ love.” _

Sigyn merely groans in dismay.


	11. Charismatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This (short but important) chapter is the last of part one! Woo-hoo!
> 
> Please read, comment and enjoy!

Sigyn has been in the hospital for two weeks and is well on her way to recovery. Loki has visited her every day.

That is, every day that Odin hadn’t come up with something with which to distract him first. Lately, there’s been a suspiciously excessive amount of diplomatic work for him, especially in cases in which it seems as though there is no need for him at all. Take now, for instance.

He’s sitting next to Thor in a trade meeting regarding precious Alfish metals, which—who the fuck cares? Asgard already has plenty of precious metals. More to the point, Thor has had this meeting on his agenda for two weeks. Odin had instructed Loki to attend this morning.

_ Coincidence,  _ he thinks not.

He sulks for the remainder of the assemblage, only realizing it’s time to leave when Thor subtly leans into his side as he rises from his own seat.

“You are not yourself today, Brother,” Thor observes, giving him a sideways glance.

Half-glaring back at him, Loki tries to shake off his annoyance at being minded like a child. Sure, his father didn’t want him to marry Sigyn, but what was he going to do? Marry her in secret? Get her pregnant so their parents would have to permit the union?

Admittedly, he had considerably liked the second idea, but it was a no-go. Sigyn would never agree—and possibly kill him.

Thor raps lightly against Loki’s forehead, inquiring, “Anything going on in there?”

Loki knocks his hand away with the intent to waive away his brother’s concerns. He grunts instead, apparently not in the mood to hold a conversation.

“Tell me,” Thor insists, proceeding to follow him down the hall. 

“It’s nothing,” he contends, sighing. 

“Really,” Thor asks, brow raised. “Because I haven’t heard you sigh this much since the last time we did Get Help.”

Finally, Loki stops walking to face him. “That’s because Get Help is stupid.”

Thor shrugs. “Is this stupid, too?”

“No,” Loki bites at him. Thor gestures for him to continue, and he sighs in acquience. 

“Another sigh,” Thor mumbles out of the corner of his mouth.

Eyes closed, Loki orders, “Shut up.” Unbidden, he sighs  _ again.  _ “I spoke to Father about the prospect of taking my relationship with Sigyn further.” Thor’s eyes light up, but Loki stops him before he can say anything. “He shot the idea down.  _ Hard.  _ So . . .”

“So,” Thor repeats, trying to prompt him into continuing. “So what?”

Bewildered, Loki throws his hands up.  _ “So  _ it’s a hard stop.”

As much as he hates to admit it, he can’t fight his father on this. If Odin thinks they’re a bad match, that’s it. That’s the end of the road. Odin would never allow even a modicum of a romantic relationship between Loki and Sigyn, so Loki has to keep it platonic. No matter how much it may kill his spirit to do so.

Thor places a hand on his shoulder, reclaiming his attention. “Loki, our father certainly has plenty of wisdom, but your future can only be decided by  _ you.”  _ He pauses, thoughtful. “And Sigyn, in this case.”

Loki shakes his head. “You don’t get it—”

“Maybe I don’t, but just listen,” he requests. “You should at least find out how she feels before making any decisions. If she wants to be with you—and of course, she does—she may have an idea of which you haven’t thought.”

His mouth quirks up in a half-smirk, and he nods, feeling a little more self-assured. “You’re right.”

“Of course,” Thor affirms in his booming voice. They continue walking to the plaza just outside of the palace. He throws an arm around Loki. “Your older brother knows everything.”

“Is that so,” Loki asks, full-on smirking now. “What’s the population of Muspelheim again?”

Thor gives Loki a firm shove ahead of him. “Shut up.”

* * *

When Loki arrives at the hospital that afternoon, he’s pleasantly surprised in finding Sigyn walking about the halls rather than confined to her small room. She’s working on her physical therapy, and it appears as though she’s made some progress. When she’d started, she couldn’t walk or even stand without someone helping her. Today, however, she’s striding down the hall, completely unaided, though Pontus and Quimby are following close behind her.

As Loki approaches them, he takes notice of her state of dress. Earlier in the week, she was still wearing the hospital wrap she’d been given, but since then, she’d recovered enough of her strength to cast illusions again. Thus, she has transformed her clothes into a light blue dress that reaches just beneath her knees.

The absence of the mysterious scar hasn’t escaped his notice either.

She spots him, calling, “Good afternoon, Your Highness. How wonderful it is to see you, another walking individual.”

Loki comes to a stop before her, feeling his eyes crinkle with his grin. “Ah, and may I just say, I very much admire your gait.”

“Why thank you, kind sir,” she quips, bending slightly in a half-bow before wincing near imperceptibly and straightening again. Beaming nonetheless, she informs him, “I haven’t stumbled at all today.”

“Wonderful,” he compliments.

Quimby chimes in, proclaiming, “That’s our girl.” This prompts little reaction from anyone until he rather thoughtlessly gives her a laudatory clap on the back. Loki and Pontus watch in slow motion and absolute horror.

Air audibly punched out of her, she lurches forward, falling into Loki’s chest and clutching at his arms. A pained, quiet whine makes its way past her gritted teeth. “Are you okay,” he asks, careful not to hurt her further.

Her breathing evens out and she opens her eyes again, nodding. From over her head, Loki watches Quimby turn tail and dash down the hall at a speed not at all appropriate for a hospital. “How far is he,” Sigyn asks, voice muffled by his chest. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Pontus tells her, “He’ll reach the end of the corridor in two seconds.”

Almost immediately, she materializes a copy of herself at the end of the hall. Her copy’s arms are crossed as she glares down at Quimby, who had startled and tripped over himself when she’d appeared. He’s lying on the ground, clutching his head with his legs folded towards his chest.

“I think he hit his head,” her copy yells at Pontus, who groans before trotting over. Once he reaches them, he bends down to inspect Quimby’s crumpled form, occasionally glancing up to speak with Sigyn.

Meanwhile, real-Sigyn straightens up and pulls away from Loki, though not completely. She leaves her hands on his biceps.  _ That’s a good sign, right,  _ he thinks, slightly nervous about what he’s about to ask her.

Her voice a tad raspier than it had been just a minute before, she behaves as though none of the preceding events occurred, cheekily asking, “Escort me back to my room?”

“Why don’t we go for a stroll through the courtyard instead,” he replies. If he takes her back to her room, there’s no telling how long it would be until someone came along to disturb them. At least, in the courtyard, it would take Sigyn’s friends or mother a while to track her down. He would prefer not to be interrupted. 

Sigyn groans loudly, throwing her head back. “Fine,” she relents, however jokingly. “I  _ suppose  _ I could benefit from some fresh air.”

“That’s the spirit,” he commends, beginning to guide her outside.

Her hand resting comfortably in the crook of his arm, they share an idle conversation about all the foods Sigyn wants to eat but can’t because her mother has determined them too bulky or spicy for her recovering esophagus. 

“I could  _ handle  _ a spiced mutton pie,” she continues, gesticulating with her free hand. She’s looking at the ground in front of them, carefully watching her step. Loki can’t take his eyes off of her. “And I am  _ this  _ close to convincing Pontus to bring me one. He’s quite easy to persuade.”

“I’m sure,” he agrees, amused.

The courtyard rests in the center of the military hospital. Its cobblestone pathways are lined with dozens of different species of flora, including shrubbery, trees and flowers from all over the color spectrum. They stop upon reaching its center, settling on a low stone bench off to the side. Sigyn takes a moment to sit without jostling herself too much. Once she’s settled, she closes her eyes and lifts her face to soak in the sunlight, humming in delight.

Tentatively, he slides his hand over hers, strengthening his grip when she doesn’t pull away. He had been a little worried she’d be adverse to being alone with him after the L-word incident the week before last, but it’s as though it’d never happened. Though, that’s concerning on its own.

Nonetheless, Thor has given him good advice for the first time  _ ever.  _ As a result, he has finally mustered up the courage to speak honestly with her about his affections. He  _ will  _ go through with this.

“So,” he says for the millionth time today. “I must admit I have ulterior motives in bringing here.”

Cracking an eye open and grinning slightly, she jests, “You going to kill me?”

Unable to think of an adequate reply, he presses on, “I never imagined I’d meet anyone quite like you.” He brings her hand up to continue clutching it over his heart. “You’re gorgeous, intelligent, funny, strong, and charismatic.”

Sigyn slowly turns to face him more fully, her smile slackening. Her eyes flick about his face, trying to read his emotions even as he speaks them aloud. 

“For over a century now, my parents have insisted I find a suitable wife, but I found no merit in the endeavor until fairly recently. Moreover, as I said before, you are so ama—”

Loki’s voice dies out as Sigyn’s free hand comes to rest gently but firmly over the open curve of his mouth. Confused and a little displeased at being barred from continuing during his confession, his brow furrows slightly.

She opens her mouth to speak, hesitating momentarily. She’s as pale as she was the first day of her recovery, her face drained of all its lively color. If he holds himself still, he can feel her hands trembling against him, almost as though she’s scared of something. A part of him—however small—is still hopeful, but that feeling is dashed away when she utters a single word, “Stop.”

He grabs her arm to pull her hand from over his mouth, surprisingly calm in the face of rejection. “Sigyn—”

“No, no,” she interrupts again. This time she pulls away entirely, standing up and stepping back for good measure. “This is—Look, I understand that you may feel a certain way. However, I do not.”

Standing too, he can’t stop himself from scoffing in disbelief. 

She gives an offended squeak. “I am serious!”

“Sigyn,” he repeats, leveling her with an utterly unimpressed look. She’s always been terrible at lying. “You called me ‘ _ love’  _ mere days ago!”

She takes an urgent step forward, shushing him. She glances around to make certain they’re alone before turning back with a deep frown and a furrowed brow. “That was a slip of the tongue.”

“A rather telling one,” he agrees. 

She glares at him for another few seconds before breaking at last. “Fine, but nonetheless, however I—we—may feel is irrelevant.”

“Why,” he wonders, absolutely incredulous at this point.

Exasperated in turn, she shouts, “Because we run immensely disparate risks!”

Unwilling to relent, he runs a hand through his hair and asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Come now, you know of what I speak,” she argues, mouth drawn in an upset line. “You are a prince—virtually untouchable. I, on the other hand, am in no way the person with whom your parents imagine you being.”

He takes her hand again, and he’s surprised when she lets him. “We could convince them otherwise.”

“No, we could not,” she sighs as her thumb runs over the back of his hand. “The way things are, it would be impossible. Maybe if it were you who would one day be king, or—I don’t know, but as it stands, I have far too much to lose, and I know that I’ll gain nothing.”

Crestfallen, he shakes his head as though to deny her claims, but he knows that he cannot. If Odin were to discover that Loki had gone against his wishes, he’d punish the both of them. Loki would be stuck in other realms doing diplomatic work for a century or two. Sigyn would likely lose her job as she’s employed by the crown.

Sigyn frowns deeper. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I truly,  _ truly  _ wish our situation to be different, but it is not.”

For an insane moment, he’s inclined to kiss her and the run the risk of her being completely offended and never speaking to him again. Hypothetically, it could work out well, like in those old wives’ tales, though he’s pretty sure those are all fiction.

He settles for dropping his hands onto her shoulders and admitting, “This is not how I pictured pouring out my heart to you going.”

“Me neither,” she whispers, inching closer. Her hand comes up to stroke his cheek.

“Are you  _ sure  _ I can’t change your mind,” he asks. “I am on the receiving end of some very mixed signals right now.”

Sigyn sighs again, and Loki recognizes that the two of them  _ must  _ have a record for most sighs in a day. “You know I try to face my fears when I can,” she tells him. It’s true. She goes into battle without hesitation, and heads off against people and traditions with which she cannot agree. “But in this case, I can’t let them go.”

“Perhaps it’ll be for the best,” he says, but he’s lying. In the last five seconds, he’s already thought of a plan to fix this. There are a lot of moving parts, and it’ll probably take a decade, so there’s a lot that can change. It’s probably best that he start right now.

“Listen, I have to go,” he says rather abruptly, beginning to pull away.

“Right,” she says, as though it was she who was just rejected.

“Not because of this,” he assures her, even though  _ yes, it’s partly because of this.  _ “I simply have business elsewhere. I’ll likely be gone for a day or two, so I won't see you until after I return.”

She makes a noise of surprise, but says nothing else. She probably has whiplash from all the directions this conversation has taken.

After some deliberation, he drops a chaste kiss on her forehead. Her eyes droop at the touch, taking on a noticeably darker hue. She seems under a spell for a brief period of time, but she breaks whatever trance had come over her by taking a forceful step backward.

He holds her heady gaze for another second before he grins and points at her. “I almost had you.”

Snorting, she shakes her head, though he’s not sure if it’s at him or to clear her mind. “Safe travels, Your Highness,” she wishes him.

Loki departs the hospital after Sigyn insists she can make it back to her room on her own. If worse came to worst, she had claimed, she could simply levitate back. Fair enough, he’d supposed.

As far as he knows, he hasn’t anymore pointless meetings to attend today, so he’s perfectly free to venture into the Great Forest beyond the palace for a purposeful if not pleasant hike. As for tomorrow, his father can’t send him anywhere if he can’t find him. 

The air grows chillier as his journey wears on, though he knows this not to be due to the falling night. Before long, he comes upon the grove for which he’d been looking. Directly in its center, a flurry of snowflakes stand nearly still in the air, slowly swirling around, but never touching the ground or travelling too far from the trees between which they float.

It’s at this point that he breaks into an all-out sprint. From experience, he knows he has to be going at full speed for this to work. The air only gets colder as he runs, but it doesn’t bother him much. Within the course of a few seconds, the Asgardian forest disappears, and he finds himself standing alone in the bowels of an icy fortress. He uses his connection to the astral plane to navigate through the corridors of the Jotun king’s decrepit palace, making sure to avoid any of his henchmen. For this first visit, reconnaissance is the only task he need complete.

Truthfully, he’s been contemplating this plan for centuries. Ever since he’d found the rift leading to Jotunheim, really. The near-frozen realm, a long-time threat and tenuous ally of Asgard, is a perfect target. Moreover, all he truly needs for his plot to work is King Laufey’s unwitting compliance and his brother’s stupidity. Should everything go as planned, Loki will have for himself the throne, his father’s approval, and with any luck, Sigyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART ONE
> 
> -
> 
> The first chapter of part two will still be pretty fluffy, but in chapter two, we get into some SHET


End file.
